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asumofwords · 11 months ago

Text

Midpoint - Michael Gavey x Reader

Synopsis: The semester break came along quicker than you thought it would, and you decided to stay on campus for the break to get ahead in your studies. What will happen when you go head-to-head with a certain ill-tempered maths student in a war of pettiness?

Warnings: This fic is 18+, readers discretion is advised. Arguing, pettiness, name calling, low blows, tension, degradation, ripped stockings, finger fucking, rough fucking, fucking in public, p in v, creampie, cum eating.

Word Count: 8.7k

Notes: Hello my angels, Happy New Year, heres to all the filth that will continue to come from the cesspool that is my mind. Thank you all for your patience, I have been so excited to write for Michael, and so I hope you enjoy this as much as I have writing it !! heheh ;) <3

Part 2

There was a soft amber glow that cast over the library, the dark wood warming with the golden light that peaked through the windows, patches of wooden floors illuminated in some spots with coloured lights from stained glass windows.

For the most part, the library was empty bar three other students who had stayed behind for the break, getting ahead on their work for the next semester.

You were one of them, and with the sheer size of the library, you wouldn’t have known there were others inside if you had not seen them when walking down the endless isles of books in search for the ‘British Working Class Movements’ for your history course.

It didn’t take long for you to find it, and by the time you settled into a secluded corner down the back, the sun had already begun to set. You flicked on one of the green and gold table lamps and began to read, periodically taking notes on a page as you went.

It wasn’t that you needed to study ahead, it simply gave you something to do whilst the break droned on, few students having stayed behind making it lonely, but a bit more bearable than making the long trip home.

You loved the library, the stained wood, smell of old books lining the walls, and the quiet of the place was a nice haven to get away from the usual hustle and bustle of college. Everyone always seemed to be in a rush to either their next class or their next party, and although you weren’t a loner per se, you didn’t always feel like being in the constant lights and sounds that came with socialising. And so the library was the one place, besides your dorm, where you could have a nice piece of solitude.

Settling over the page, you gained a steady rhythm. Read about one movement, then write anecdotes as you went, taking the time to pause, re-read, and really absorb the information as much as you could. It was fascinating, and you enjoyed learning as much as you did.

By the third hour of continuous reading and note taking, your hand began to cramp, and so you decided it was time for a short break. You stood up from the desk, stretching your arms above your head, a small sigh escaping your lips as your back cracked and muscles pulled. You twisted your upper body to each side, softly grunting as you felt your back click again and again, sighing loudly as a particular pop took away an ache that had settled between your shoulders. You continued on with your languid stretches, trying to get some of the stiffness out of your body from being hunched over the desk for so long.

You wondered how much more time you should spend writing notes, or whether you could go back to your dorm and laze about on the bed. Luckily for you, you didn’t have a roommate, and were able to make the space feel much like your own. You didn’t have too much furniture, the room not allowing for it, just your essentials and a few trinkets here and there that you had collected. Your real pride and joy however, was a Peace Lily that you had saved from sure death. Now, it sat proudly on your study desk, growing dark green leaves and flowering its soft white flowers.

The idea of going back to your dorm seemed tempting, after all, you didn’t really have to be studying, and you had just recently bought the new Harry Potter book and wished to read some more of it, make a nice cup of tea, sink into your sheets and get lost into a fantasy world.

A soft jangling came from between one of the large book shelves, and soon a man peeked through. His icy blue eyes caught yours and you watched as he assessed you from where he stood, albeit awkwardly, gaze dragging up and down your body.

He was tall and lean, with sandy blonde hair that sat messily atop his head. He had a sharp aquiline nose, and lips that pulled up naturally in its corners.

You recognised him from somewhere, but where you couldn't be sure.

Perhaps he was in the same classes as you?

He continued to stare at you, shirt tucked into his pants, small carabiner attached with a USB dangling from a belt loop, his tongue pushed into his cheek.

“You right?” You asked, shifting on your feet, wondering if he needed something from you.

His lips pursed as he looked at you from down his nose, “Are you?”

You furrowed your brows, “Huh?”

“You've been moaning in the back of the library like a tart.”

You bristled, “I beg your pardon?”

Who the fuck-

“Some of us are trying to study.” His arms were stiff by his sides, and before you had the chance to reply, he spun on his heel, shoes squeaking loudly in the aisles as he marched away.

“What the fuck?” You whispered to yourself, feeling angry and also slightly embarrassed about the encounter.

Had you been making a lot of noise?

You didn’t think so, especially since the library was essentially empty anyway. You had even chosen the furthest corner of the floor as well, tucked away behind rows of books and out of sight.

You sat back down at the desk and tried to continue writing notes, but instead, you found yourself feeling far too self conscious, and wondered if you were even breathing too loudly. But before you got too self critical, you remembered that the library was practically empty, and you had specifically chosen a spot the furthest away from the other three students.

If your stretching and little sighs had disturbed him, he was either hanging around your area, or had the hearing of a bat.

So after about an hours more of study attempts and a half a page more of notes, you decided to call it a night, packing away your belongings before taking the book with you, not bothering to check it out.

As soon as you got back to your dorm, you headed straight to bed, not feeling in the mood to make a cup of tea or even open your new book, no longer looking forward to enjoying yourself and settling in. Instead you laid on your back staring at the ceiling, stewing about how the man in the library had spoken to you, and vowing that if you saw him again, you'd give him a piece of your mind.

And by your luck, you did see him again.

The very next day.

You got to the library around midday, deciding that you weren’t going to do a late night of studying, deciding to have a relaxing night in to pamper yourself, maybe even watch a movie in the common rooms if the tv free, or do as you had intended the night before; a cup of tea and your book, and maybe even some ‘me’ time.

The library, despite all its windows and the suns rays peeping through, was cold, and as soon as you stepped foot into it a chill ran over you. You walked through the endless rows of books, not seeing a soul as you climbed the stairs to the second floor, dust settled into the crooks and corners of the staircases and bannisters, the smell almost overwhelming, until finally, you saw him.

He was sat in the centre of the room at one of the large study desks, multiple books opened around him as he furiously wrote down notes and equations. His head didn’t lift at the sound of your footsteps, too busy in his own little world studying for God knows what, so much so, that it was a wonder that you had even managed to disturb him the day prior, which now only seemed to fuel your anger.

You were never one to back down.

You walked straight to him, toes almost kicking the leg of the table as you looked down at his neat writing, his hand flying across the page in rapid succession, no calculator in sight despite the lengthiness of the equations.

It was impressive, you noted begrudgingly, the way he worked so swiftly, and just was you were about to gain his attention, he spoke to you, hand not once slowing as he worked.

“What do you want?”

It wasn’t rude, just as it wasn’t polite. If anything, it was abrasive, like the rough cobblestones outside, and not once did he look up at you.

It caught you off guard.

Your mouth opened and shut as you tried to think of something to say.

Was it really worth being hot headed and saying something the day after?

Would he even remember?

Or would you be embarrassing yourself further?

Ultimately you gave up, deciding that there was no point to saying anything anymore, sighing in resignation as you walked around the length of the table continuing to yours.

You got about three steps away before he spoke again.

“Remember that you’re in the library this time.”

You spun, staring daggers into the back of his head, hand gripping the strap of your bag, “What the fuck is your problem?” Your chest heaved in anger, waiting for him to turn around or answer you, but he didn’t.

The sandy haired man continued his endless equations, leaving you standing behind him as though you had spoken to a ghost. It was maddening, the rush of your blood loud in your ears drowning out the steady scratch of his pencil.

How dare he?

He was just like all the others, like every other man on campus who felt they could speak however they like at any woman as though you were beneath them.

You stood there for what felt like minutes, but was mere seconds.

Realising that you weren’t to get an answer from him, you continued on your way to your secluded little table, stomping through the aisles, your footsteps echoing loudly in the space on the wooden floor.

When you got to the table, you all but threw your bag down, the heavy textbook slamming onto the wooden surface, making a large bang.

Never in your life had you been so agitated, ripping the chair away from the desk, letting the legs scrape on the mahogany floor.

One after the other, you yanked your books out of your bag, your notebook and pens, throwing them onto the table without a care. You could feel the heat of your anger creeping up your neck and into your face, and despite your attempts to calm yourself by studying, you ended up just re-reading the same paragraph over and over again, not once absorbing it.

By the time you decided to give up, the sun had begun to set, and so you hastily scrambled to shove your things back into your bag, not even bothering to tuck your chair in softly, throwing it against the desk and storming out the way you came.

He was still in his regular spot when you stalked past him, his head turned down as he read through his notes, multiple empty chocolate wrappersw spread across the table.

“Fucking asshole.” You muttered as you walked past him, not bothering to spare him a second glance as you huffed and stormed away, hoping to find some peace in your dorm.

When you got to your dorm, you were so hungry that you began to feel sick. Realising that in your anger you had forgotten to eat, you wandered down to the pub not far from campus and got a cheap little meal, eating quietly in the corner, a telly playing a soccer game on the screen in the back.

There weren't many patrons that night, but you could hear the pool table being used in the distance, the loud clacking of the balls being sunk, drowning out the soft sound of the telly. The pub stunk of stale beer and cigarettes, ring stains on all the wooden surfaces from sweating glasses.

It was still early when you finished, and so you made the decision to check out the commons and see if a tv was free.

The night air was cold as you walked back to your dorm, your teeth chattering in your skull as you sped walked, wrapping your arms around yourself to get back into the warmth of the old building. Lights illuminated the old stone walls in a yellow light, casting shadows on the cobblestones and bare trees around you.

It would have been spooky if you weren’t used to it by now, and could understand how first years would become spooked at night alone, walking through the courtyards.

As you made your way towards the common room in your building, you couldn’t help but think about the man in the library. His sandy hair, blue eyes, sharp features and sharper mouth. Who needed a heater when you had this man to fire you up? You could almost hear his grating tone as he mocked you, his glasses shining in the library as he looked down his nose at you.

He made you feel small, unwanted. But you had worked hard to get into Oxford, and you, whether he liked it or not, had earned your place.

It wasn’t unlike the men you already knew in STEM to be somewhat assholes, especially towards women or any degrees they deemed ‘unfit’ or ‘unworthy’. You had heard many scoffs and sneers at the Arts students, or English Literature kids, especially if it was women, from the STEM boys who seemed to hoard together like a bunch of flies. Or better yet, like a Rat King, unable to break the connection between each other despite how much they fought it.

It was, to follow the pun, a rat race.

The hall was dark as you walked to the commons, but from the window of the door, you saw the tale tell sign of the telly being on. You wondered momentarily if it was anyone you knew that had stayed back, perhaps one of the girls.

Maybe you could settle down with them and watch whatever mind melting soap opera was on, and lull yourself into a stupor.

The prospect of talking to someone almost dissolved your sour mood, and by the time you opened the door, peering into the flickering light illuminated room, a small smile had begun to pull at your lips.

But that smile was short lived as your eyes met a pair of pale blue ones.

You watched as his lips pulled down in recognition of you, his head turning to look back at the telly. Your heart began to race in your chest again, the door clicking shut behind you, the soft sound of Doctor Who’s theme song filling the room, the screen reflecting off of his rectangular lenses.

It didn’t help that the small drinks you had at the pub seemed to ignite your previous disdain for the man, as well as dampening your, for a lack of a better word, cognition.

In that moment, you were at a loss of what to do. You wanted to watch tv, but the idea of being anywhere near him infuriated you. Yet, at the same time, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction by leaving, indicating to him that you had given up, and that he had won.

“You going to stand there all night?” He teased cruelly, eyes not once turning back to you, locked on David Tenant as he ran through an abandoned warehouse.

You bristled, teeth grinding down against each other as you stormed past him, “Fuck you.” You dropped down onto the cushion on the other end of the couch.

From the corner of your eye, you could see his lips purse slightly, obviously hearing you.

No matter how much you tried, you could not get comfortable on the couch, and it wasn’t because the couch had a natural groove from the many people who sat in it, or the obvious stains on the covers and arms, some recognisable, others dubious, nor the permeating cigarette smell that emanated from deep within the foam, but rather because he sat all too comfortable beside you, watching a show you wished you could watch alone.

You shifted against the arm again for the umpteenth, huffing softly in the room. Your ass had fallen asleep because you sat ramrod straight and refused to relax, tucking your legs beneath you not leaning back. No matter what you did, you could not settle, body gearing up for a fight.

When you shifted again, it seemed to pull his attention away from David Tenants doctor.

“You gonna keep huffing in the corner like a baby?”

Your already fragile thread of patience snapped.

“What the fuck is your problem? Have I done something to you? I don’t even know who you are.”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say to him. The man sneered, leaning towards you on the couch, “My problem is vapid little cunts like you. Getting by on mummy and daddy’s money whilst the rest of us have to work to stay here. You just party and fuck each other like rats.” His cold eyes razed up and down your body, watching as your face morphed from anger to offence, and then, to rage.

You shot up from your seat, moving to stand over him as he looked up at you, face barely containing his hatred.

“I don’t have ‘mummy’s and daddy’s money’, I’m here because I worked hard to be here.” You hissed, hands clenched into fists at your sides, “You know nothing about me.”

“I know you’re friends with Felix Catton and every other vapid, useless cunt that hangs off of his every breath.” His voice lowered, hatred simmering behind his light illuminated glasses.

Your brows furrowed, “Felix and I have a class together. Assigned seating. We walk there together. If-” You straightened, looking down at him before it hit you.

A laugh of disbelief flew from your lips, and soon enough the cocksure anger melted away from his sharp features, replaced by confusion.

“Wow.” You huffed, a bitter laugh filling the air, “You’re jealous.” His eyes narrowed on you, “You’re jealous of Felix.” You watched as his mouth snapped open, “Maybe if you weren’t so-“

“-I’m not fucking jealous of those nobodies.”

Snorting, you shook your head, “Nobodies… Yet people know their name. I don’t even know who you are.”

You waited for him to give you his name, to finally tell you who this infuriating man was, the credits of Doctor Who playing in the background as you stared at each other. Your chest heaved, but all you felt looking down at him was irritation.

“Your anger is misdirected." You growled, "I thought you would be smarter than that.”

The man's jaw ticked, “I thought you didn’t know who I was.”

“I don’t.”

You turned away, suddenly drained from the whole interaction. You didn’t bother to turn back and look at him, or even say another word. You wanted to go to bed, no, needed to go to bed and get away from the man on the couch before you tore your hair out.

As you opened the common room door, his voice called out to you.

“Y/n L/n.”

The way he said your name sent goosebumps rising on your skin, each syllable pronounced slowly, as though he was savouring your name on the tip of his tongue. Your hand paused on the door as you pushed it open, looking back at him.

“And who are you?”

Before he could answer, you left, slamming the door shut behind you. You marched straight back to your room, hands in such tight fists that your nails left half crescent moons in the flesh of your palms.

You lay awake most of the evening staring at the ceiling with the interaction on your mind.

He knew you by name, even thought you were friends with Felix, and whilst you weren’t not friendly with him, you wouldn’t say you were closely acquainted. You drank at the same parties sometimes or saw him down at the pub, but the only one-on-one time you had with him was in class.

Whoever this man was, and whoever he thought you were, he was wrong. And now he was going to regret it.

You knew he would be there, in fact you betted on it, getting up extra early to go to the library to do the one thing you planned on doing that day.

Piss him off.

If there was one thing that men hate the most in the world, it was not being in control, and that was doubled if it was with a woman.

You sat at the table he always did, spreading your textbooks and papers, pens, notes, snacks, water bottle, and even IPod Nano on its surface. You had brought extra things with you today in your bag to spread across the table, some things not even needed to study, but used to take up more space and soil his little territory.

The sun had barely even risen by the time you laid it all out, but you knew it would all be worth it.

And it was, because not even fifteen minutes later, he arrived to the sight of you at his desk, humming as you looked at your notes.

His feet stopped not too far from your (his) table, watching as you met his gaze, devoid of emotion. You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling, watching as he clenched his teeth in irritation.

He was almost shaking with anger.

Got you.

You kept the image of innocence, looking back down at your notes as you tapped your pen against the tables surface loudly. You could see his fists clenching in your periphery at his side, his pale green button up shirt with long beige pants shifting side to side as he stood angrily watching you.

“What are you doing?” The blonde’s voice cut through the quiet of the library, irritation evident in his tone.

You didn’t bother to look up, pen still clicking rhythmically against the table, “Hm?”

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

Placing the pen on your page delicately, you looked up, “Pardon?”

The mans cheeks flushed an angry red as he stared down at you, lips pulling into a tight line, “Whatever you think-“

“-I’m sorry,” You interrupted him, leaning forward to look up into his eyes sweetly, “Do I know you?”

The man leant forward and sneered, “Gavey.”

“Gavey?” You titled your head, biting your lip softly in thought.

Why did that name sound so familiar?

“Yes.” He grit through his teeth, looking down at your spread notes and gear.

Then it came to you.

“Gavey! Michael Gavey!” You beamed up at him, leaning slightly forward on the desk.

Now you knew why he was so familiar.

“You’re the maths genius.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. Anyone who had heard about Michael Gavey knew about his stellar intellect when it came to maths, and unfortunately for him, they also knew about his little antisocial outbursts, “You yelled at Oliver on O week.”

You watched with delight as the anger fell momentarily from his face, and embarrassment replaced it. You leant further forward, putting both elbows on the table as you rested your chin on your hands, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Is it true then? You can do any sum just in your head?”

If it was true, he needed to be studied by a team of scientists.

And maybe a behavioural therapist.

Michael stood taller, proud to have been recognised for this part of him as he watched you bat your eyelashes at him. His shoulders rolled back, eyes glimmering with determination behind his glasses.

Men were so easy.

You just stroke their ego a little and their guard comes down immediately.

“Ask me.” His voice was soft, confident, waiting on bated breath to show off his born skill.

You smiled, “Alright. Seven-hundred-and-eighty-nine multiplied by six-hundred-and-fifty-four.”

Without missing a beat, “Five-hundred-and-sixteen-thousand-and-six.”

“Divided by twelve.”

“Forty-three-thousand point five.”

“Times nine.”

“Three-hundred-and-eighty-seven-thousand-and-four point five.”

You leant back in your chair watching him. It was impressive, and if he wasn’t such a prick, you would have openly praised him. But you didn’t have it in you in that moment to give him anything but a lengthy stare, using the time to get a good look at his face without the sneer.

He was handsome, a long face framed nicely by his ‘devil may care’ hair. You wondered if he even bothered to brush it in the morning. The longer you looked at him the more you could see how his sharp features and soft lips would in fact get him the attention he so desperately craved, if only he wasn’t as insufferable as he was. In fact, the more you thought about it, if things had been different, perhaps you would have pursued him, maybe even asked him out for a drink.

Instead, he had made an enemy for himself, and being petty at this point was a hobby for you that you took great time and pleasure in doing, especially if it was for assholes who made the first move unwarranted.

“Hm.” You tapped your pen against the table, “How do I know it’s correct and you're not just making it up?”

This seemed to anger Gavey.

“I’m not making it up. I do the sums,” He narrowed his eyes, “In my head.”

“I don’t have a calculator to confirm this. For all I know, you could be lying.”

The anger was back, “I’m not lying. I’m never wrong.”

“Sure.”

“I’m a genius.”

“Uh huh.”

Then came the vitriol, his shoulders tensed in rage, “What would you know anything about maths? You’re a History and Philosophy major.” Michael scoffed, seeming to think that his disdain for your degree would upset you in the slightest.

You sighed loudly, pulling the earphones from your Ipod to begin putting them in your ears. You looked at him pointedly, putting a sad little smile onto your lips.

Show time.

“It’s a shame, you know.” You said sadly.

“What?” Michael responded, over-eagerly.

The earphones sat in your ears and you scrolled down to a song you wanted, letting the music begin to play loudly just to piss him off, the noise turned up high enough for him to hear the lyrics. You didn't show it, but it was too loud, and most certainly hurt your ears, yet it was worth it to see his nose scrunch up.

“That you’re a snob.” Your voice rose over the music in your ears, unable to hear anything but the loud bass line that bounced in your head, “You’re actually cute when you’re not sneering at me.” You let your eyes drop back to your page, ignoring his presence as you strummed the pen loudly against the wood of the desk, unable to hear if he responded, but also not bothered to hear him. You had ended the conversation just the way you wanted.

And it would drive him nuts.

What you hadn’t seen was his mouth opening and shutting multiple times as a blush spread across his cheeks. He stood idly by, utterly unable to produce a single word or sound bar clearing his throat. Michael disappeared from your periphery as he left to sit at the table at the end, dropping into his seat to begin his studies.

But it proved to be fruitless, because as he attempted to settle into the endless stream of equations, all he could hear behind him was the tinny sound of your music blasting from your earphones and the steady grating tap of your pen.

He tried, in vein, for over an hour to focus, before giving up and storming out of the library. It was only then when you lifted your head, smiling at his retreating figure in triumph.

I win.

Not a word had been written on your page, and not a thing had been absorbed in your head. You lowered the volume of your music, a ringing settling into your ears, before packing up your things to go back to your dorm, deciding that a job well done was deserving of some respite, and in your good mood you would actually read your book.

You spent the rest of your day and better part of your evening reading, lounging, and snacking on some chips as you snuggled into your sheets.

Being the creature of habit that you were, you ended your triumphant day going to the pub to have another cheap meal and a drink or two, spending a considerable amount of the evening chatting up another student who had also stayed behind during the break.

He was cute, and funny, and although he hinted more than once that he would like to continue your evening back in either one of your dorms, you didn’t have the energy to entertain a potentially dull night of barely there pleasure.

He smiled too wide and had too much confidence to really know what he was doing, and you felt immediately that he would be the type to get his and leave you high and dry. So you parted, promising emptily to get another pint together soon enough, though you knew it wasn’t your stellar verbal company that he wanted.

Sinking into bed that evening was an easy and pleasurable experience. You crawled into your sheets, smile on your face and victory on your tongue. Your tit-for-tat was successful, and now you could finally just focus on your work, and not the sandy haired Michael Gavey who seemed to invade your every thought.

The sun trickled through the curtains by your bed, a warm stream of light hitting your face. You woke with a stretch, body slowly waking up with the day.

You didn’t have much planned after yesterdays success, and didn’t have a want to do much at all, but there was only so much lounging in bed one could do over the many weeks of break, so you decided to go back to the library, at least for an hour to make up for yesterdays losses (despite the personal win).

You looked around your room and settled on a skirt and some tights with a turtle neck sweater, unable to find anything else as a pile of dirty clothes had slowly accumulated in the corner. You made a note to yourself to take it to the laundromat later with some coins and your book.

The walk to the library was the same monotonous one as it always was. The same stone walls, the same dark wooden detailing and floor, the occasional beautiful stained glass window, and the ever strange silence of an empty college. There was a light layer of frost on the grass outside, and you wouldn’t be surprised if it would snow. The trees were bare except for a handful of orange and brown leaves, hanging on for dear life, or perhaps, holding on with dead fingers.

Rigor mortus of the petiole.

The steps creaked beneath your feet as you made your way up to your usual spot, the library cold as it always was, causing you to wish you had brought a warmer jacket with you. When you got to the landing, you expected to see him, sandy hair, glasses slipping down his sharp nose, hunched over the same textbook as he wrote out his equations with dizzying speed, but the tables were empty, and the aisles were barren, and all that was in the library was you.

Briefly you wondered for a moment if something has happened to him. Had he gotten sick? Too ill to crawl out of bed, laying in his sheets with a fever and no one to comfort him?

You frowned at the thought.

Why did you care?

His ego was likely too bruised to show his face, and was hidden in another alcove or other smaller library somewhere else, or perhaps even in his room.

Maybe he even had friends, and decided to spend the day with them, likely another student in STEM.

You could have sworn you saw him and Oliver Quick in the pub one night together.

You walked past his empty table and continued down the end to where your little nook was, grazing your fingers along the spines of the books as you went. Each ridge another spine, each spine another thousand upon thousand of words that had been read, dissected, and rewritten by many a student. You liked to think about how many hands had touched the pages, how many eyes had skimmed the words, how many bags, beds, tables, couches, cars or trains they had been in over the years, and how many times you had read them, or held them in the same spot.

You emerged from the isles to your nook.

It was not what you had expected that morning.

Certainly not what you had expected any morning come to think of it, but even so, your steps halted and your heart began to quicken, anger slowing creeping up your neck, heating your face.

He was sat at your table.

Your table.

His glasses had slid down almost to the tip of his nose, a long slender finger daintily pushing them back up to the bridge, lips pouted in their natural pout as his hand flew about his notes, writing equation after equation in a speed that would intimidate even Einstein. Michaels hair was disheveled, as though he had run his hand through it multiple times, as he contemplated the pros and cons of sitting there.

He must have landed on the pros.

“What are you doing.” You bit out, an irritating sense of dejavu seeping into your bones.

Michael didn’t look up at you, your feet almost pushing through the floor, anger rooting you in place.

“Hm?” Came his noncommittal reply.

It set you off.

“You’re in my seat.” You hissed, swiftly stepping towards him.

The light from the window beside him cast shadows across half his face as he looked up at you, he sucked his teeth loudly, “Your seat?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” His head dipped back down to his notes, his blue eyes looking up at you from under his lashes as his hand continued to write, “This is a public library. It’s a public seat.”

You stormed forward dumping your bag atop his hand, his pencil scraping across his notes on the paper, “You know exactly what I mean.”

His jaw ticked, steely blue eyes flicking to where you dumped your heavy bag atop his notes and own text book.

“I’m sorry, I’m not tutoring on break.” His tone all too demeaning as he over pronounced each word.

Your hands slammed down onto the desk as you leant forward towards his face, “I don’t need a tutor and you know it, you miserable little cunt.” Anger boiled inside of you, building and building, ready to burst.

Michael bristled, “Who the f-“

“-Oh, fuck you, Michael. You’re a miserable piece of shit, thinking you’re above everybody else, sneering at anyone who dares to be happy. I’ve seen you, always sulking about in the shadows because no one can stand to be around you.”

The silence was almost deafening.

Oh God.

That was a low blow.

You had taken it too far.

You swallowed thickly, suddenly feeling very guilty, “Michael,” You started, “That was-“

A pale hand lifted in front of your face, the man standing almost near silently in front of you. He went from below you, to towering above in a split second, his sheer size double your own. He stared down his sharp nose at you with a look of contempt, the rage behind his eyes flickering with barely held restraint.

“Do you want to know what I think?” His voice was low, lower than you had ever heard it go, emotion almost drained entirely from it except an icy edge which sent the hairs on the back of your neck on end.

You stayed silent, watching as he stepped away from the desk, chair scraping on the wood to come towards you slowly, your heart beating like a drum behind your ribs.

Though you could step back, his eyes kept you glued to where you were, head craned up to look at him as he came closer, the tension in his jaw growing with every passing second.

It was unnerving, and everything within told you to run, but something made you stay.

Call it guilt.

Or intrigue.

His hand dropped to his side, slow, calculated steps coming closer, each one as silent as the next as his cheek twitched whilst looking you over.

“I think,” He began, a foot away from you, voice low, “That you’re just desperate enough to accept the scraps that they give you, because you fear if you don’t,” Another step, taking him toe-to-toe with you, “That you’ll be a nobody like me.”

Your mouth became dry, lips slightly parted as a tinge of hurt spread through your chest.

You shook your head faintly, “I don’t think you’re a nobody.”

A brow lifted, “You called me a nobody.”

“I was wrong.”

“Wrong because it was hurtful? Or wrong because you have more in common with me than you do with them.”

You shook your head, “Why is it always about them?”

“It is always,” He sneered, “About them. I have watched you take what little you can get from them like a beggar. Talking to Felix in the hallways, doing his homework for him, smiling at him like a dolt.”

Your eyes widened in surprise.

“I’ve seen you.” His shoe bumped against yours as he leant forward, “You’re nothing to them. How long was it before they even learnt your name?”

“Stop it.” You whispered, feeling tears prickle in your eyes.

Michaels head tilted, “Why? It’s the truth.”

“It’s not.”

The sandy haired man clicked his tongue at you, head tilting, “You and I both know that’s not the truth, is it? What did Farleigh call you again?”

A lone tear fell down your cheek, leaving a wet track in its path. Your lip wobbled as you tried to keep your composure.

You didn’t know how he knew.

You didn’t know how he could have known what Farleigh had said to you that night, drinking in the pub together.

You hadn’t even meant to join them, but their table grew bigger and bigger until it swallowed your own and soon enough they were buying you shots. It was never a regular thing, you were never quite in the circle, but not quite out of it either. More-so lingering in the nothingness of neither here nor there.

Michael looked at you pityingly, not in a way where he held empathy for you because of it, but in a way where he pitied you for being the way you were. It was demeaning. Cold.

Detached.

“Parvenu.” His lips pronounced each syllable slowly, darkly, and it made you ache.

Another tear fell as you took a sharp intake of breath, sniffling roughly.

Shame built inside of you.

It was humiliating to relive that moment, let alone with Michael. And now that you knew he had witnessed or heard it, you wondered who else may have been there to hear Farleigh’s degrading comment and snort of a laugh followed. The way he would raise his brows at you the rest of the night as if to say ‘See? You don’t belong here, and we can all see it’, ‘We let you here because we can’.

“I don’t understand-“

Michael interrupted you, "-You let them walk all over you, and for what? Parties and accolades?” The corners of his lips turned downwards, “They don’t even respect you. Do they know that you’ve stayed behind on break alone? Do you think they’ll think of you in their mansions? Do you think Felix would ever-“

“-You talk about them as if they’re irredeemable, but they’ve been far nicer to me than you have.” Another tear fell, and your stomach tied itself in knots.

The anger seemed to simmer in his eyes, “They don’t deserve you.”

Your brows pulled down in confusion, “What?”

“You let them use you, chasing after their fleeting affections. It’s pathetic.”

Anger began to simmer inside of you, “Pathetic? You know what’s pathetic?” You leaned up on your toes, “The fact that you have so clearly been watching me, and everything that I do, and not once have you tried to be my friend. Do you know what’s pathetic?” Your voice began to rise, heat inside of you rising with it, “Your anger and hatred of them clearly stems from jealously and embarrassment because they would never talk to-“

Your eyes widened in shock, his lips crashing against yours as he yanked you forward, hand at the back of your head pulling you in tightly. You were so in shock, you didn’t know what to do, standing stiffly in his arms as the other circled your waist and pulled you against him.

It only took a second for your brain to come to with what was happening, your eyes sliding shut as you kissed him back roughly, all teeth and vitriol as you bit the soft flesh of his lips roughly. He hissed, pulling you closer, your feet stumbling against his as he backed you towards the wall of books beside the desk.

Your spine hit the shelf roughly as he shoved you back, both of you panting before you grabbed his shirt angrily, yanking him back towards you. You were so furious, so almost feral that you needed this more than you would have thought.

There was something about him, something about him that made you want to pull your hair out and also sit on his face to silence him.

His kisses weren’t skilled, but they were filled with passion as his teeth clashed against yours, a fight for dominance ensuing as you let a hand slide up into his hair and pull. A grunt came from deep within his chest as you yanked at the roots cruelly, hoping it would hurt him. Heat built in your gut rapidly, the need for him growing stronger with each passing second.

The hand on your waist slid down further, pulling up your skirt as his fingers pressed against your clothed core. You gasped into his mouth, hips thrusting forward from the pressure. With the other hand disappearing from the back of your head, it met the other between your legs, hooking into the gusset of your tights before you heard a loud rip, cold air immediately hitting your core.

You gasped loudly, Michael taking advantage as he slid his tongue into your mouth, flicking it upwards against the back of your teeth. He tasted faintly like chocolate, and it was a taste that you didn’t mind at all. His fingers immediately sought out your centre, sliding impatiently between your folds to gather the wetness from your entrance.

His movements were sloppy, yet focused, drawing it up to your clit as he rubbed fierce circles into it that bordered on painful. You nipped his bottom lip harshly again, yanking his head back and away from you to look at his face as two long digits circled your entrance.

The pupils of his eyes were enlarged, almost swallowing the blue of his iris whole. His cheeks were flushed a dusty pink, and lips a deep red after your bites. The glasses upon his face were slightly skewed and lightly fogged, the hair atop his head sticking up in different directions from your rough handling. You didn’t even get to observe him for longer before he roughly shoved the two fingers inside.

“Fuck.” You hissed, back arching towards him, shoulders roughly pushing into the bookshelf.

A mean smirk pulled on his lips as he crooked his fingers against the front of your walls, quickly thrusting his hand in and out with dizzying speed. Your breath caught in your throat, brows pulled down as you looked at him, low whine falling from your lips.

“So wet already.” Michael teased, thumb lightly brushing your pearl, a spark of intense pleasure shooting up you.

You pulled his head back towards you, moaning into his mouth as he continued to fuck you with his fingers, the sound of your arousal loud in the both of your ears. Michael pulled up one of your legs, hooking it around his hip, the cold metal of his carabiner pressing sharply into your inner thigh. Pleasure began to wind tightly in your gut, his long fingers reaching parts of you, your own couldn’t.

Panting against his mouth, your hand flew behind you to grip one of the wooden shelves, elbow bumping against the spines of the books.

His pace never once faltered, all those hours of quick equations all day boosting his hand strength and stamina. You were surprised that he even knew what he was doing, but the questions floated aimlessly in the back of your mind, not quite sticking.

Your nails dug into the wood of the shelf, hand falling from his hair to his shoulder as your head fell backwards against the shelf, your peak barreling towards you.

“S’close. Please.” You whined, rolling your hips into his hand.

A mean laugh broke your peace, his fingers pulling out of you sharply, preventing you from reaching your release. Your eyes flew open, brows furrowed in frustration as you looked at him, smug smirk on his lips as he brought his fingers up to his mouth, sucking on the arousal soaked digits.

You moaned weakly looking at him as he did it, hips rolling towards him in an attempt to get him to touch you again. Michael lips pouted at you as he pulled his fingers from his mouth with a wet pop.

“Touch me.” You breathed, pulling him towards you with your leg, the zipper of his cargo pants pressing against you sharply. You sighed, rubbing your centre against his pants, a wet patch no doubt beginning to stain the front of them.

“So desperate.” He cooed at you, your core clenching at his words as your eyes fluttered.

The hand that had been inside of you quickly made its way to the front of his pants, the other joining as he hastily undid his belt, not pulling it through the loops, followed by his button and zipper. Michael hastily reached into his pants and pulled out his hardened length, the tip pink and weeping, veins crawling up the sides.

You swallowed thickly as you looked down.

Oh shit.

Michael was very well endowed.

You didn’t know what shocked you more, the fact that he had such a sizeable cock, or how he thrust it up into you without warning. The stretch was bordering painful and you cried out loudly, Michaels hand slapping across your mouth to stifle the sound.

“Quiet.” He hissed, pushing in to the hilt, the tip of his cock brushing against your cervix. Your eyes screwed shut as you whined into his palm, your walls struggling to accommodate him as he slowly pulled out, each vein and ridge catching on your inner walls deliciously.

The slow heat inside of you began to build once more.

Michael thrust into you sharply, your head banging against the back of the shelves as he kept his hand against your mouth, the other holding your hip against him. He set a brutal pace, fucking into your slick walls without abandon as he chased his own pleasure, punching the air out of your chest.

“Fuck.” He hissed, forehead pressing against your own as he looked down to where you were joined, the leg you stood on stretched on your tippy toe to meet his height as he fucked you, “Your cunt is fucking tight.”

“Mmm.” You moaned, eyes slipping shut as the coil within your gut began to wind rapidly, each brutal thrust stretching you wide against him with painful pleasure.

“You gonna cum?” He panted, his eyes shutting behind his glasses that slid down his nose, “Can feel you squeezing my cock. Fuck.”

You nodded desperately beneath his hand, eyes opening to meet his steely gaze as he pulled his head back to watch you, the book shelf creaking as he fucked you against it.

You were so close, so fucking close.

“Go on.” He commanded, “Cum on my cock like a little slut.”

Your core clenched around him, blinding white pleasure coursing through you as you came, his hand falling from your mouth as you moaned loudly, the noise echoing in the library.

“Shit, fuck. I’m gonna-“ Michael’s thrusts stuttered as a long moan burst from his lips, the warmth of his cum filling you.

You whined, hands gripping his hair as you crashed your lips against his, kissing him lazily as you both panted, his cock throbbing inside of you as your walls squeezed every last drop from him.

Michael pushed as deep as he could go, the warmth of his cum beginning to leak around the base and down your thighs as you pulsed around him. Your mind was blank, fuzzy warmth spreading through your limbs in a soporific manner. He broke away from the kiss, breathing heavily as he looked down at you, glasses slightly foggy.

You searched his eyes and his face before a smile cracked on your lips. Michael mirrored it with a lopsided grin, huffing as he breathed out deeply.

Feeling a burst of confidence, you let a hand brush between your legs, swiping some of his cum that had dripped onto your thigh up to your mouth. You licked it off your finger slowly, opening your mouth to let him see the mess on your tongue before swallowing.

Michael’s adams apple bobbed, his cock twitching inside of you, “Fucking hell.”

You huffed another laugh, leaning forward to kiss him again, sliding your tongue into his mouth so he could taste himself as well as you on his tongue. He hummed loudly, dropping your leg to cradle your head in his hands.

When you broke away once more, you couldn’t help but notice the glaringly obvious.

Michael Gavey just fucked you in the library.

His tongue wet his lips as he looked at you, “Was that good?” A beat, “For you?”

“Yeah.” You breathed, “You?”

“Yeah.”

Silence began to stretch between the two of you before you shifted your hips, Gavey took the hint and slowly slid from your walls, causing you to whimper from the overstimulation. He tucked himself into his pants as you righted yourself, looking down at the gaping hole in the gusset of your tights.

“Well this will be an interesting walk home.” You mused, a hum of a laugh tickling the back of your throat.

Michael snorted, “Made quite the mess.”

“You did.”

Michael smirked, “It wasn’t all me now. I can’t take all the blame.”

You let your skirt drop, smoothing it down as you stepped away from the bookcase, looking back up at him.

“I suppose not. There was effort on both ends here.”

“There was.”

You nibbled at your lip, the unspoken words just at the tip of your tongue, “Michael-“

“-27. We’re in the same block.” His eyes searched yours.

Room 27? Why-

“Did you want to get a drink?” Michael blurted, shifting on his feet awkwardly as though you hadn't just fought and angrily fucked against a bookshelf.

You looked at him closely. There was no sign of insincerity in his eyes.

He was offering an olive branch.

You let a smile wash over your face, enjoying how his own came to match it.

“Sure."

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to any tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! <3

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#Michael Gavey x reader #Michael Gavey x y/n #Michael Gavey #Saltburn #michael Gavey fanfic #michael Gavey smut #Saltburn fanfic #michael gavey x reader #michael gavey x you #michael gavey smut #michael gavey fic #michael gavey #ewan mitchell #saltburn fanfiction #saltburn fic #michael gavey fanfic #Michael gavey oneshot #saltburn #michael gavey saltburn

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chilling-seavey · 23 days ago

Text

Desiderio (gr63)

↳ A/N When my first F1 fic on here reached 1k notes (and my first piece of writing ever to hit 4-digits!!), I agreed to reward you, my lovely readers, with a highly requested part two to celebrate. Here is part two of Enchanté. You do not have to read the first one for this one to make sense, although it's encouraged! This also took me exactly 63 days to complete so lol that's fun

↳ Summary: It's been a year since Paris. A year since you've seen George. In the middle of the storm of a century, in another foreign city, fate sometimes works in mysterious ways.

↳ Pairings: George Russell x Fem!Stranger!Reader (NO use of y/n)

↳ Word Count: 21.4k

↳ Warnings: 18+, smut, invisible string theory lowkey, one night stand (or is it??), use of explicit language, oral (f & m receiving), fingering, rimming, minor anal play, choking, spitting, spanking, squirting, overstimulation, use of derogatory names (slut etc.), use of a vibrator, brief female masturbation and slight voyeurism, George has a (very skilled) dirty fucking mouth, unprotected sex (and unprotected creampies...)

The hotel bar was dimly lit despite the early evening hour; the soft, amber glow of table lamps barely pierced the shadows as the dark stormy sky outside laid a blanket of gloom over the city of Milan. Rain pelted down in heavy sheets against the large paned windows, hammering against the cobblestone sidewalks, and causing the dark wood shutters of the historic hotel to rattle aggressively in the shrieking wind. The weather report had predicted rain, but no one expected the tempest that now roared through the city.

Sundays were often the quietest days as you had discovered through your recent travels, but, this Sunday in particular, the lobby of the hotel seemed to be in upheaval.

Voices of displeased guests carried through the lofty ceilings and panicked groups chatted loudly together, trying to fix their upturned travel plans. The lobby was a cacophony of travelers pleading for vacant rooms that didn’t exist or shouting into their phones in various languages, trying to secure flights that simply weren't available. You knew it was a futile effort. You’d tried all of those same tactics just an hour earlier.

Now, exhausted from your anxiety and stress that the unprecedented storm had caused, you found yourself at the hotel bar with a glass of wine in hand and your suitcase beside your chair. You were entirely stranded.

Sooner or later, you'd have to confront the reality that there was no flight home and no hotel room left for you—the room you'd occupied all week had already been claimed by the next guest. For now, you tried to push aside the gnawing anxiety twisting in your stomach and focus on your drink while it lasted. Maybe, in a strangely sadistic way, there was some grim amusement to be found in watching the other guests frantically yell at each other.

As always, when work no longer occupied your mind, your thoughts drifted to a familiar memory; one tinged with a bittersweet ache of nostalgia. It felt like both years ago and just last week—your very first work trip to Paris, lingering vividly in your mind as you sat at the hotel bar. You knew it was foolish to keep thinking about the handsome stranger from your last night there, but the connection you had shared was unlike anything you had experienced before—or since.

The way he touched you, spoke to you, fucked you was something that had been engrained in your mind ever since, dreaming for someone to ever come even a fraction close to how incredible he was. George. Such a dull and unremarkable name for a man so impressive and unforgettable.

Out of everyone in the world, your path had happened to cross with his that fateful evening during which you shared a night of lust in the heart of Paris with a view of the Eiffel Tower. He opened up your world to opportunities you were closed off to before; sending you back home with a new outlook on sex and intimacy. Yet every man you had tried to connect with since always fell short—either they were too boring, self-centered, or couldn’t even get you to cum yet alone wanted to actually try. Disappointment after disappointment, your mind always went back to George. You were sure you were cursed to just want nothing but that whirlwind romantic night of debauchery with the one that got away.

He was probably snatched by then; almost a year later. A handsome, kind, talented man like him certainly wouldn’t be on the market for long. Regardless, you knew nothing about him but his first name. You had no way of connecting with him again even if you wanted to—and no patience to sift through the millions of Georges that probably existed in the world to try and find yours.

Your gaze lingered on the last sip of wine in the bottom of your glass on the bartop; a gentle glimmering light golden colour. A local Italian white that seemed to just do the trick in getting you into your thoughts and out of them all in the same. The chaotic noise of the hotel lobby faded into the background as you idly swirled the remaining liquid, watching it dance in slow, hypnotic circles around the bottom of the glass. With a melancholy sigh, you lifted the glass up to your lips and downed the remaining sip. The glass rested back on the bartop with a dull clink.

With nowhere to go thanks to the relentless storm, you lingered a while longer at the hotel bar, turning your attention back to the chaotic crowds. The poor front desk staff were nearly overwhelmed, swarmed by a sea of disgruntled guests. You noticed a couple of security guards stationed near the entrance and reception, as if poised to manage any brewing unrest. One of them placed a firm, warning hand on the shoulder of a particularly upset woman who was pushing her way towards the desk, flailing her phone around and shouting in Italian.

The darkened lobby of the luxury hotel flashed with a sudden bright light as a strike of lighting tore across the sky. That quieted the guests for a moment in surprise before a crack of thunder rumbled across the atmosphere and nearly shook the ground beneath the hotel. Chatter rose quickly, everyone in awe at the power of mother nature and how it so effortlessly screwed up everyone's plans.

But, as the noise level rose again and the coming and going of heads and bodies created a blurry sea around you, your attention was drawn naturally towards the front desk once more. Standing there, in a crisp white collared shirt, was a tall, broad-shouldered man speaking to one of the receptionists. His back was to you, but for a fleeting moment, your heart skipped—a rush of familiarity stirred by the sight of his sandy brown hair, damp and darkened by the rain. It was almost too familiar, making your chest tighten with a sudden, unshakable feeling.

For the past year, you’d caught glimpses of George in every passing stranger, every storefront window, in everything you laid eyes on. Countless times, you’d found yourself on the verge of approaching someone, convinced it was him, only for them to turn around—revealing, to your disappointment, yet another unfamiliar face. This time, you were sure, was no different.

So, you sat on your barstool, watching aimlessly. It wasn’t long before he straightened up, giving the receptionist a polite nod before turning to face the chaotic swarm of panicked guests. To face you.

Your heart plummeted to your stomach the moment your eyes landed on his face. It couldn’t be...

George was as handsome as you had remembered him to be; even after months and months apart. He stood out from the crowd with an impressive height and presence about him, like he was being followed by a spotlight, the noise of the storm and the hotel guests fading into nothing in the background as your eyes lingered on him. He shuffled to the side, dropped the backpack he was carrying to the ground at his feet, and pulled out his phone. Immediately, he was typing furiously away with furrowed brows directed to his screen, his angular jawline undoubtedly tense from his own ruined plans.

For a moment, you were frozen in your seat, nearly just gaping at him from across the busy lobby. At first, you wanted to just turn back around and order another glass and pretend you didn’t see him at all. At least that would save you the embarrassment of him not recognizing you. Why would he? He made it clear back in Paris that he often would charm women on his travels to take them back to his hotel; not one to be tied down, he told you. You were certain you were nothing more than a fleeting encounter, a statistic in his long list of conquests.

But, at the same time, you knew that you would live with this regret for the rest of your life if you didn’t try. Since you parted ways in Paris he had been the only thing on your mind and in your dreams and you longed for some way to reach him again. This might have been the only chance you would have.

So, you slid off your bar stool and tugged up the handle of your suitcase and carefully navigated your way through the swarm of people to where he stood by the front desk. Your steps were hesitant and calculated as if your shy reluctance was taking over. But then, when you were just meters away, a clear path opened before you between the bodies—like the parting of the sea.

You saw him visibly sigh as he lifted his gaze from his phone to scan the chaotic room. His shoulders rolled in an attempt to shake off the weight of stress and he ran his fingers through his damp brown hair, pushing it away from his face. Then, as if pulled by some unseen force, his eyes locked on yours.

Your feet entirely stopped and you were sure that if the room had been quiet, the sole of your shoe would have shrieked against the tile floor with how quickly you halted. For a few long seconds, the two of you just stared at each other.

Then, muffled by the noise of the crowds that surrounded you, he spoke your name like he had been saying it all his life.

As if pulled towards him by some invisible string, you were in front of him in a blink, trapped close in the barely secluded corner of the lobby. You opened your mouth to speak but no words came out.

George spoke for you in genuine disbelief, “This is…crazy. I thought I’d never see you again after Paris yet alone here.”

“Yeah, me too.” you stumbled out with a nervous chuckle, staring into his wide aquamarine eyes, trying to get your words to catch up with your mind, “I didn’t know if you’d even remember me…after a year.”

George seemed taken aback, replying genuinely, “How could I forget? We had quite a night in Paris.”

You smiled bashfully towards the rain soaked windows across the lobby before confessing, “I don’t know. You seemed...set in your ways…busy with your plans.”

George shook his head with a soft chuckle, “Busy, yes, but not so busy that I’d forget someone who made such an impression. What about you? How’ve you been?”

You looked back at him in the dim lighting of the crowded lobby in your darkened corner away from the hoards of strangers. He seemed to be brighter than everything around you, standing out from the dreary surroundings that swarmed you, a beacon of comforting light, a breath of fresh air. The fact that he remembered you had your insides stirring with butterflies, leaning into the realization that maybe he had been dreaming about you just as much as you had been dreaming about him over the last year.

“I’ve been...managing.” you answered gently, “Life’s been a bit of a whirlwind.”

“Work?”

“Busy.” you nodded down to your laptop case that was fastened to the handle of your suitcase.

George noted your gesture, “Another business trip? Here in Milan?”

“Yeah. There were a few design shows and suppliers my firm wanted me to visit.” you said, as if you owed him an explanation. Then, out of desperate curiosity at how crazy this was, you asked, “What about you?”

“Oh, work, yeah,” George answered with a curt nod in agreement, before gesturing to the chaos of the crowd and the storm that still powered on through the large paned windows, “I was supposed to be flying out today but…”

“Me too.” you said when he faded out, following his gaze to the torrential downpour battering the streets of Milan. “So of course now I have no flight and no hotel room.”

He looked back at you, puzzled, “No hotel room? You checked out already?”

“My booking had expired,” you explained. “The next guest needed my room. Did the same thing happen to you?”

George hesitated before replying, “No, actually…I managed to keep my room for another night.”

Your eyes widened, “What, really? How?”

He pocketed his phone with a tight smile, “I offered to pay double for tonight.”

“Double?” you gaped, knowing how much your work had covered for your room in such a luxury hotel, “But that’s, like, four thousand dollars.”

George let out a slightly nervous laugh and a half shrug, “Yeah, well, it was that or sleep on the sidewalk.”

You blinked in astonishment, trying to wrap your mind around the expense. “I can’t believe you actually paid that. That’s...a lot of money.”

“It’s not that bad,” he shrugged off the cost with a nonchalant air, barely phased by what would seem like a significant dent to most, “Desperate times, right?”

You studied him, feeling a mix of admiration and envy, which you masked with a lighthearted comment, “Well, I suppose it’s good to know someone’s luckier than me tonight.”

George’s gaze intensified as he spoke, “Actually…my suite is more than spacious enough for two, if you need a place to stay tonight.”

“Oh, I-” you stumbled over your words as flashes of what sharing his hotel room in Paris led to filled your mind. Shivering, you finished your thought, “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense,” he assured you lightheartedly, “Meeting like this has to mean something. I’m not going to let you sleep outside. That’s just ridiculous.”

Your demeanor softened, your apprehension easing, “Well, if you’re sure it’s not a problem...”

George nodded with a genuine smile that made your stomach flutter with butterflies, “Great. It’ll be nice to have some company too. And this means we’ve got plenty of time to catch up.”

You mirrored his smile with appreciation, albeit a touch of shyness ghosting over your features, this entire situation completely unexpected, “Alright; lead the way then. I’m curious to see what kind of room warrants a double payment.”

George chuckled softly, “Trust me, it’s nothing too extravagant.”

He gently rested his hand on the small of your back to guide you as you both turned for the elevators, his ghostly touch sending a shiver up your spine. It had been a year since he had last touched you and the fantasy-like sparks that his fingertips blazed across your skin were a welcome reminder of where you had left off.

As you followed him, you couldn’t help but feel a flutter of anxiety and anticipation. The storm outside seemed to mirror the storm of emotions within you—an unexpected chance to reconnect with someone from your past, bringing both excitement and uncertainty.

Standing in the cramped elevator, shoulder to shoulder, the sudden silence after the chaotic lobby was almost deafening. The air between you felt charged, as if neither of you knew quite what to say after such a long time. You had shared a passionate and intimate night in Paris, but here and now, you were still essentially strangers. For a fleeting moment, you wondered if approaching him had been a mistake.

But then the rickety elevator reached the second floor of the historic Milan hotel and George helped to pry open the metal grate so you could step out into the hallway with your suitcase. He led the way towards his room and you followed closely, shamelessly eyeing the way his backpack hung over one shoulder, looking heavy and bulky, and part of you wanted to be nosy and unzip it to see all the secrets he held within. Even after Paris, he held this sense of mystery about him that still plagued you.

When he unlocked the door and stepped inside, you were greeted by an elegant entryway, complete with a console table holding a bowl of fresh fruit beneath a landscape painting directly opposite the door. You paused for a moment, expecting a standard room similar to the small space you'd been staying in the past week. Instead, what lay before you was something altogether different—larger, more luxurious; the pinnacle of the Four Seasons Milan.

George, moving with the ease of familiarity, tossed his room key and wallet onto the console table without a second thought, then disappeared to the left. A flood of warm light spilled into the entryway as he turned on the lights, beckoning you to follow. Not wanting to linger awkwardly in the doorway, you toed off your shoes and then trailed after him, entering a spacious living area that caught you entirely off guard.

The room was stunning, a stark contrast to the cramped quarters you’d grown used to. Ornate stucco designs adorned the twelve-foot ceiling, a remnant of the building's 15th-century origins, casting an elegant shadow over the spacious, open layout. The walls were tinted the faintest pink to add a bit of colour to the room, contrasting the rich dark wood floors beautifully. To your right, two cream-upholstered couches flanked a large flatscreen TV that backed onto the courtyard beyond four large paned windows. Of course, with the storm still raging outside, there was little to see beyond the glass.

So your gaze shifted left, where an oversized four-poster wooden bed dominated the room, facing towards the windows. The luxury linen sheets were pulled tightly over the king size mattress, pillows fluffed to perfection, almost so pristine you might have thought someone took an iron to it. His offer to share his room had seemed generous in the moment, a solution to your sudden predicament, but now, with your eyes fixed on the bed, your mind was racing with unspoken thoughts.

Sharing a room wasn’t new for either of you—Paris had seen to that—but the weight of all that remained unsaid lingered between you. A year had passed since that fleeting night, and now, standing here again, you had no idea where you stood with him or what boundaries might now exist.

The sharp sound of curtains being drawn along metal rods broke your thoughts. George, who had dropped his backpack on one of the couches, was methodically pulling each curtain closed, as if to block out the raging storm outside. His suitcase and duffle bag were zipped shut and already resting beside the couch, having been anticipating leaving that evening just as you had.

You hadn’t realized you were just lingering dumbly in the entryway before he turned to face you, curtains closed and leaving only the light of the table lamps to illuminate your surroundings, and he set his hands on his hips, “Alright?”

“‘Nothing too extravagant’, he said.” you echoed his modest statement from earlier as your eyes raised back up to the ornate ceiling again.

George’s gaze followed yours and he smiled faintly at the ceiling decoration before looking at you again with an amused half-smile, “Yeah, that’s what I said. I did say it was a suite.”

You met his gaze across the spacious room, “Well, then I must have taken it with a grain of salt.”

“Will it do then?” he asked you, making his way in your direction, over the cream paisley rug towards his bags, “Worthy of my double payment?”

“Perhaps,” you smiled playfully, “although the last thing I want to know is how much the double payment was for this.”

“A gentleman never reveals his secrets.” George sent you a little wink as he unzipped his backpack. He then gestured aimlessly to the room as he rifled through his bag, “Make yourself comfortable. I’m just going to wash up a bit and change out of these damp clothes.”

“No rush.” you said gently, stepping out of the way to let him head back into the small hallway towards the bathroom, a change of clothes in hand. When he passed by you, he set a gentle hand on your waist to slip past politely, leaving a lingering warmth in his wake.

When he shut the door behind him, you were faced with the spacious suite to yourself. You made your way farther into the room and set your suitcase beside his, your eyes lingering on his half opened backpack he had been rifling through only moments before. Looking back to the hallway to make sure he wasn’t about to come back out claiming he forgot something, you took a slow tentative step towards it.

He was such a mysterious figure—even back in Paris—and you were desperate to learn a little something about this man that never seemed to leave your mind or your heart. He seemed to be a vault and you wanted to know at least something more about him before whatever might have transpired that night. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

You gently rested your finger on the open zipper of his backpack to pull at the fabric to peek inside. The shadows from the warm table lamps didn’t help you see much in the dark confines of the bag so, with one more glance towards the direction of the bathroom for safe measure, you entirely reached your hand in.

The first thing you felt was something soft and smooth like some sort of tightly manufactured fabric. You grasped your fingers around the item and pulled it out to be met with a sky blue glove in your hand. It wasn’t like a winter glove or a medical glove…more of some sort of safety glove but incredibly light. The unusual print of a faux watch around the wrist made you crinkle your brow in confusion.

It was tossed back in the bag and, instead, your fingers found the pleather cover of a thin notebook. You pulled it out, admiring the unassuming cobalt blue cover for a moment in your hands before you opened it to the first page. In neat writing, the name George Russell was printed in the top right corner, the G and R large and curling compared to the other letters. Well, now you at least had his surname.

You thumbed through the pages for a brief skim, most of the words you did see didn’t make much sense to you. Delta… power unit… blistering… undercut… You opened to one of the pages and read a bit more in detail but the jot notes were messy and full of words you didn’t understand. What was this guy’s job?! Clearly it was an important one with all of the technical and mechanical notes taking up the pages of the notebook.

The sound of the bathroom door opening again had you stuffing the book back in his backpack and you nearly threw yourself onto the opposite couch, phone in hand, desperate to look as casual as you could fake. George emerged from the bathroom in lounge pants and a t-shirt, feet bare and his hair still a bit of a damp wavy mess atop his head. A rumble of thunder sounded from outside, its strength barely muffled by the closed windows and drawn curtains.

“It’s really raining cats and dogs out there, isn’t it?” George stated as he unzipped his duffle bag and tucked his worn and re-folded clothes inside it.

“Yeah,” you exhaled, a small smile hinting at the corner of your mouth at his little idiom.

“Did you want to get changed?” he asked as he stood up straight again, gesturing haphazardly over his shoulder towards the bathroom.

He wasn’t as flirty and insistent as you remembered him back in Paris; he seemed calmer now, more grounded, mature, sure of himself. You treaded the water carefully, trying to figure out where you stood after a year apart. You couldn’t deny your obvious attraction to him—he was still just as handsome as you remembered—but you couldn’t shake the uncertainty that lingered within you. Was this the same man who swept you off your feet so effortlessly in Paris, or had time and distance changed both of you to, once again, be complete strangers? You weren’t sure if you were ready to fall back into old habits, especially when so much had gone unsaid between you, so many unknowns. Still, the pull toward him was undeniable, like a force you couldn’t fully resist, even if you wanted to.

“Oh, uh,” your eyes dropped to your suitcase that was sitting in front of him, “I think I’m okay for now.”

George pulled a polite smile, “Okay.”

He walked around your bags and joined you on the couch, sitting a polite distance away but enough that you could feel the dip of the cushion when he sat down. His arm rested aimlessly over the back of the couch, his fingertips barely reaching the edge of your arm.

“I still can’t believe it’s really you.” George said gently, a calm smile on his face, his intense gaze focused all on you, “After a whole year…out of all the places in the world…what are the odds?”

“I know.” you gushed, the casual conversation helping to ease your momentary stresses. You rested back into the couch a little, facing towards him, “I was sure I’d never see you again after Paris.”

“Me too, although I was hoping.” George confessed gently, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you after you left that morning.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest at his confession, a solidification that at least part of your feelings were mutual, “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” George chuckled at your bashful question, still looking over at you from the opposite side of the couch, “That was some night we shared. I haven’t experienced anything like that before.”

“Or after?”

“Or after.” he conceded. “You?”

You shook your head faintly, “Me neither. Tried but…nothing came close.”

George’s tongue slipped past his lips, wetting them a moment as he processed your words, before breaking into a modest symmetrical smile, “Well, glad we’re in the same boat then.”

His arm that was resting over the back of the couch shifted slightly so his fingers grazed your shoulder. Cautious, testing. Of course, you didn’t stop him. You noticed his gaze lingering on you with an intensity that made your heart race, so many unreadable things in the storm of his blue eyes. The persistent rumble of the tempest outside lingered in the background.

“So, how’s life been treating you since Paris?” you asked, attempting to shift the focus to something lighter while gauging his mood and trying to pull more out of him. “Have you been on any more adventures that I should be jealous of?”

He chuckled softly, leaning back with a rueful smile. “Some here and there but, you know, the usual. Taking it day by day. This last year was extra busy so…not much time for anything outside of work.”

You raised an eyebrow, pitching a trying, “Not many female suitors met your fancy?”

George’s eyes twinkled with mischief, lolling his head to the side to almost rest his cheek on his bicep that was draped over the back of the couch. “Not quite. Or maybe you just set a pretty high bar.”

You laughed softly, feeling the tension ease between you. “Flattery, I see.”

“Flattery, or the truth.” he shrugged coolly. His fingers that were resting ever so faintly on your shoulder reached up to dance through the loose strands of your hair framing your face. He breathed out a gentle, “Nothing has been quite as memorable as Paris. No one has been as enchanting as you.”

“No one has been as incredible as you.” you replied effortlessly, your voice a soft hum.

George’s lips curved into a slow smile, his eyes glinting with playful mischief. “Oh? Is that your way of saying I’ve ruined you for anyone else?”

“Well…” you faded out for a moment before giving the smallest chuckle, “Perhaps.”

You just stared at each other for a moment, all your senses honed in on the feeling of his fingers gently playing with the ends of your hair. He was enchanting; just as you remembered him. His sly little smile and the hint of flirtation in his slightly cocky response was so reminiscent of the man you met a year ago. His big blue eyes staring at you like that - like there were a million things going on in his head but not a thought on how to say them out loud - framed in long lashes had your heart fluttering in your chest.

“So… what happens now?” you asked quietly, barely above a whisper, unsure if you wanted to ask the question but knowing it hung suffocatingly in the air between you both.

He sighed softly, leaning back into the couch as he glanced up at the ornate ceiling for a moment in thought before tipping his head to the side to meet your eyes again, “I don’t know. I didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to figure that out.”

A slight pause lingered between you. The storm rumbled on through the walls of the historic hotel. You just had to bite the bullet.

“Do you want to figure it out?” you asked finally.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” George replied, his voice lower now, more intimate. The weight of his gaze was undeniable, pulling you in like gravity. “I wouldn’t have invited you up to my suite.”

His stare, his words, the ghostly touch of his fingers in the ends of your hair and over your shoulder, everything was electric. A flash of lighting peeked through the edges of the closed curtains. You felt your pulse quicken at his presence, but still, you needed to hear it clearly. “And what does ‘figuring it out’ look like to you?”

George’s lips twitched into a subtle smile as he leaned in slightly, “Depends. What does it look like to you?”

It was an invitation—one that made your stomach twist in both excitement and nerves. He always had done that since the moment you met him: always turning your questions back to you first. It was both infuriating and amusing. Through it all, you couldn’t deny the magnetic pull that still lingered between you two, the remnants of a night long ago that neither of you seemed to have forgotten.

“Well…” you began, slowly, tentatively, “I suppose we could start by seeing where tonight takes us.”

George’s smile deepened, “I like the sound of that.”

You mirrored his warm smile, facing each other on the couch. With his agreement, you cautiously reached out and set your hand on his knee, feeling the warmth of his body through the thin fabric of his lounge pants. Despite your touch, his gaze didn’t waver from your face.

“And I think…” he then said, his fingers lightly brushing up the side of your neck and along your jaw as his body moved naturally into your space and his voice took on a more playful tone, “If you’re in agreement…we’ve got some unfinished business to take care of, don’t we?”

For a moment, you froze as if you had never kissed someone before in your life. On the contrary, you had your fair share of kisses and especially over the last year when trying to find someone that made you feel the way George had but to no avail. But, here, now, with this heavy desire between you after so long, it all felt so new again. You felt so shy under his presence, warm under the way he touched your face and cradled your jaw in his large hand, nothing but putty in his palms.

You leaned in with him, sharing the responsibility of meeting halfway for your lips to lock in a slow tentative kiss. The storm raged outside, the rumble of thunder matching the rapid thudding of your heart in your chest. For those first few seconds, the two of you sat there, motionless, for a moment. Then, when you both broke away for a breath, your eyes met in the shadows of the warmly lit hotel suite, sharing silent conversation.

One simple gaze into those emotive blue eyes of his sparked an unprecedented sense of need within you. As if driven by an unparalleled force, your hand raised to the back of his neck and you were hurriedly pulling him in again by your own insistent will. He let out a little groan at the surprise intensity of your kiss, slotting his lips with yours.

Any momentary shyness from your unexpected reunion that had previously filled your stomach was now tossed out the window into the storm. The familiar and long awaited taste of his lips on yours had heat burning over your body, your hand tangling in the roots of his hair as you shared sensual kisses on the plush couch. In such close proximity, your senses were taken up by nothing but him; the faint scent of his cologne, the masculine musk of sweat and lust, and subtle hints of rain from his journey through the beginnings of the storm. Nothing had smelt as wonderful to you as he did.

You shifted on the couch slightly to face him a bit better, slinging your arm around his shoulders entirely to really pull him into you. Your heads tilted as if by some instinctive force to deepen your kisses, the faint lewd sound of your lips meeting and parting muffled only by the howling storm outside. At the same time, you both offered a bit of tongue, sharing brief smiles into your kiss at how in sync you were, how hungry for each other. His thumb swiped over your jawline and caressed your cheek in time with your slow sensual kisses and you offered him a small hum of approval.

George let out a pretty moan into your mouth while his hand moved from the side of your face into the back of your hair. He fisted a snug handful and tugged gently to break your kiss as your head tilted towards the ceiling, so he could move his lips down your neck.

You let out a breathy, barely audible, “Fuck.”

He hummed against your skin in reply, trailing slow open mouthed kisses up the side of your neck before nibbling at your earlobe. The gentle bite of his teeth had you shivering and he licked up the shell of your ear before kissing behind it, making you clutch onto him tighter at the butterflies it sent right to your stomach and between your legs. Your hand rubbed over his broad shoulders and up along the nape of his neck again, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip with a small moan as he kissed you in ways no one else seemed to be able to.

“Fucking missed you,” George breathed out, the heat of his breath against his spit on your skin making you shiver.

“Missed you,” you echoed to the ceiling, fingers scratching through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, “Missed this.”

George groaned against your neck, leaving you with a little bite to the apex of your neck and shoulder, before his lips were locking with yours in another heated kiss. Right away, your tongues were pushing insistently against each other, lips locking between them, bodies melting closer.

Your hand that wasn’t around his shoulders discreetly played with the hem of his t-shirt, giving it a little nudge to get your fingers underneath. Ever so faintly, your fingertips ghosted over the warm skin of his abdomen, even the slightest touch of his body making your shift needily at his side, wanting to get even closer.

“Already wanting to get me undressed, baby?” George purred against your mouth, punctuating it with more kisses. You could taste his cocky smile.

You merely whined in reply at his teasing, unable to speak with how insistently he was kissing you, not giving you a second to properly reply. But then his hands were grabbing the bottom of your shirt and pushing it up and you had no choice but to lift your arms up to let him take it off you.

As the fabric passed over your head, interrupting your kiss, he spoke in a gravelly voice, “You first.”

Who were you to complain? Especially as he dropped your shirt to the ground without a second look and right away was kissing down your neck again and over your collarbones. He leaned his body into yours just enough for you to get the hint to lean back and he grabbed your folded legs to help adjust your position. You lowered yourself lengthways over the couch, resting back on the rose-coloured down-filled throw pillows as he moved over top of you and found home along the column of your neck.

His hands groped you over your bra—not your nicest looking one since you hadn’t anticipated this to happen when you got dressed that morning, but he didn’t care in the slightest. His fingers dipped into the cups and tugged them down, greedily pulling your breasts out for his hungry eyes and, without hesitation, for his even hungrier tongue.

George swirled his tongue around one of your nipples before taking it in his mouth, the sudden heat of his mouth in contrast to the cool air of the hotel room had you gasping, body arching slightly into his touch. He moaned against your chest, sucking on one breast while his hands squeezed the flesh of the other, fingers pinching the nipple. Barely anything had happened by this point in the night and you could already feel yourself falling into dizzy pleasure, that growing ache deep inside you feeling hotter and more prominent. Nothing had ever felt like him.

Your eyes fluttered shut and you let out a pleasant exhale to the high ceilings, head dropping back against the decorative pillows. George pulled away from your breast to give the other the same attention, taking your nipple in his mouth and teasing it with his tongue before giving it a firm suckle. His eyes raised to your face despite the slightly awkward angle, wanting to watch your every reaction. And, as he swirled his tongue around your breast and squeezed your other in a firm grip, his other hand slipped under your back and blindly popped the clasp on your bra.

You helped him to take it off your arms and dropped it onto the floor with your shirt, barely letting the fabric fall from your hand before he was pulling away from your nipple with a wet pop and leaning up to capture your lips with his again. You moaned softly into his mouth, easily matching his greedy pace of lips and tongue, your hands sliding around his back and bunching the fabric of his shirt in your fists. George rested between your naturally spread legs with practiced ease, his large hands still kneading your breasts in a two handed grip that in any other instance might have been almost painful. Instead, you mewled into his mouth at his firm touches.

George sucked on your tongue for a moment before breaking away from your lips again, peering down at you beneath him in only your slacks with a look of a man starved. He moved back from you a little, one knee on the couch between your legs and his other foot stabilizing himself on the floor as he grabbed the waistband of your pants and started to yank them down. You lifted your hips up to help him take them off you, shifting obediently until you were left in only your underwear.

George all but growled at the sight of you, hands dragging down your bare torso, “I’ve dreamt about this body for months.”

His honest words had you moaning with need from where you were splayed out on the couch for him. Your hands slid up his forearms to his biceps, staring at the look of lust on his face as his fingers pinched and rolled your nipples before he was following the contours of your body right down to your thighs. He nudged them open a little wider before he was pulling off his shirt and throwing it across the floor.

“Oh my God.” you exhaled, nearly trembling in anticipation beneath him.

George didn’t waste a second as he lowered right down to trail hurried wet kisses down your abdomen and over your navel and to the waistband of your panties. He took the elastic in his teeth to give it a teasing tug before letting it snap back against your skin. You gasped sharply at the faint sting, watching him intently as he turned his head to pepper kisses over your inner thighs–one and then the other.

“Gorgeous…perfect woman…” George breathed against your skin before sinking his teeth into the flesh of your inner thigh, just enough for you to feel a bit of pressure.

You inhaled sharply at the feeling of his teeth, eyes locked on him as he found home between your legs once again. He turned into you, pressing his nose over the front of your panties, and he breathed you in for a moment, long lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

“Mm, my God,” George groaned lowly, his words a lustful rumble, his breath hot against your skin. His hands slid up your thighs and his fingers looped in the waistband of your panties, “Let’s get you out of these.”

He pulled your panties down effortlessly and you moved your legs to help him slide the thin fabric down them so he could discard them onto the floor too. You adjusted yourself on the couch for a moment, trying not to let his unwavering stare on your naked body make you nervous. Maybe that was your fault for holding him to such high standing in your mind throughout the year you had been apart. Regardless, the faint smile that was ever-present on your face was enough of a giveaway that you were ready and willing to progress this evening.

George moved back down again, his eyes trained in on the apex of your spread legs and as he settled between them, he glided two fingers down your cunt, parting your glistening folds with a purr, “There’s that gorgeous pussy.”

“George-” you exhaled, barely getting his name off your lips before he was leaning down and dragging his tongue right over you. Your fingers twisted into the fabric of the decorative pillows your head was resting on, mouth falling open ever so slightly as you stared down at him like that.

His eyes were closed almost peacefully, lapping at your pussy with his full tongue a few times before taking your lips in his mouth to suckle on for a moment. When his eyes opened to stare right up your body at your flushed face, the look of him had you shivering. He gave you a little wink as he kept up the movements of his tongue, up and down, up and down. Your head dropped back against the cushions with a small groan.

“Mmm…” George pulled away from you with a lick to his lips, his eyes dropping from your face to your pussy as his fingers smeared themselves in the slick of his spit and your growing wetness, “You taste incredible…just like how I remembered it. Fuckin’ delicious.”

“Delicious?” you chuckled faintly to the ornate ceiling.

“Mhm, you’re absolutely delectable.” he breathed as he leaned back down to taste you again, his two fingers spreading you open for his hungry tongue.

Your soft laughter fell off into silence at the feeling of his tongue swirling around your clit in slow, careful circles. George’s eyes stayed locked on your face, meeting your gaze as you lifted your head to look down at him again. You could have sworn you saw him smile against your pussy, his tongue finally pressing flat against your aching clit before lapping at it in consistent teases.

“O-Oh my God-” you withered, eyes nearly rolling as your head fell back gently against the cushions.

George let out a small hum against your cunt, not letting up the slow but sure pace of his tongue at your clit before he was pursing his lips and peppering sloppy wet kisses to that same spot. The faint suction of his kisses had your thighs twitching at the sensation, a small squeal slipping from your mouth at the same time. Without hesitation, George kept those sloppy kisses going, his fingers still spreading your lips apart for full access to your clit while his other hand blindly rested on your thigh to push your legs apart wider.

You let him move you as he pleased, more than willing to succumb to whatever he wanted since you knew you would reap the rewards in no time. It was so easy to fall into his hands like putty, your entire body already feeling like jelly under his mouth as he had you spread open on the couch. He still had one knee on the seat of the couch with his other foot pressed to the floor for stability, not able to join you entirely on the modest size hotel room couch without being an entire mess of limbs.

But whatever he was doing was just perfect and before you knew it, soft moans and breaths of pleasure were tumbling from your mouth. You dropped a hand down to comb your fingers through his soft brown hair, pushing the wavy strands away from his face so you could greedily see more of those big blue eyes. George stared up at you almost unblinking, his lips and tongue working in harmony over your clit just to pull more of those pretty sounds out of you.

You could feel the warmth buzzing through you, burning hot across your chest and up your neck, a fever of lust that you had missed so strongly. George snaked his arms around your thighs, pulling you in until your legs framed his head, and his tongue spoke for him in silent praises in all the right spots. You couldn’t hold back the moan that choked its way out of your chest, your back arching slightly off the plush couch cushions.

“Mmm,” George muffled against your cunt, sliding his large hands from your thighs up your hips and to your chest, groping your breasts in both hands as his mouth kept its steady pace between your legs. His pretty eyes were half-lidded and full of lust, staring up at you between your thighs, his nose buried right up against your pelvis as his tongue kept lead.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, your head dropping back against the arm of the couch with a whine and a firm bite to your bottom lip. You could hardly remember the last time a man that wasn’t him made you come and you were welcoming the reminder of all that it could feel like. The heat, the passion, the pleasure.

“George-” you whimpered out, elongating the syllables a little, “Please-”

He didn’t even let up to offer any sort of cheeky reply, all too focused on his task at hand and wanting to make you fall apart from just his mouth. His fingers pinched and rolled your nipples insistently, giving you that added pleasure that made your back arch off the bed. Your toes of the foot sandwiched between him and the back of the couch pressed into the cushions, desperately trying to lift your hips off the couch to press harder against his mouth, wanting more.

George’s tongue moved a little faster now, his eyes locked on your face as your face contorted in pleasure, your breaths heavier, harder, with every second. Your hand tugged relentlessly at his hair as if he needed help to not move away, your body starting to tremor in waves from your hips up to your shoulders.

“O-Oh-” you choked out and then fell perfectly silent.

George moaned up against your cunt as he felt you tense and pulse under his mouth, keeping his pace going as your first orgasm of the night washed over you. Your head tilted back against the pillows with a silent gape, eyes screwed shut, your legs parted greedily as your thighs quivered slightly.

You gasped out of your orgasm, chest heaving, letting it all out with a pleasured moan to the high ceilings of the hotel suite. Your fingers released his hair to reach behind your head and grasp onto the edge of the cushion you were resting back on, anticipating him to stop but he didn’t even falter. Instead, his blue eyes stared right up your body at you, his hands sliding back down your torso to loop around your thighs instead while his tongue kept lapping insistently at your swollen clit.

Sensitive from having just had your first properly satisfying orgasm in months, you winced slightly as he kept going, taking in a sharp breath. Naturally, your legs tried to close around his head to shut him out as your body needed a second to calm down but he was relentless. He was relentless and you were equally as greedy. You wouldn’t dare stop him.

Taking your lack of verbal complaints as permission, George kept going, wrapping his lips around your swollen clit to suck gently on it. Your entire body twitched, a small whine slipping from your lips at the intensity of the sensation.

Your head heaved up from the pillow to stare down at him, your soft breaths and whimpers growing louder and pitchier by the second. With your eyebrows furrowed with pleasure, you gave him a little nod and a silent mouth of ‘yes’ followed by more eager nods. The cushions that cradled your body in the corner of the couch were home to your hands, your knuckles turning white with how hard you were clutching the expensive fabric.

George sucked harder at your clit, slender fingers pressing into your doughy flesh and keeping your thighs snug around his head. Your legs started to shake from the intensity of it, nearly vibrating around his head, while your chest rose and fell faster now and a pretty blush creeped down your neck and over your collarbones from how aroused you were.

“Fuck-” you choked out, the word barely audible as your entire body tensed up again, leaving you perfect silent once more.

You swore you were dizzy for a moment with how hard you came the second time, thrust upon you so quickly after your first. Your legs were nearly vibrating through the strength of it, wrapping tighter around George’s head as you writhed to try and ease him up a little through the intense waves of pleasure ripping through you.

When it faded, you inhaled a sharp breath and a trembling groan, dropping a hand down to push the heel of your palm against his forehead for mercy.

George pulled away from your pussy with a lewd slurp from the breaking of the suction, his mouth and chin absolutely glistening in the lamp light, and he licked his lips free of the taste of you. His eyes lingered on your cunt, lips swollen with arousal and the intensity of the back to back orgasms he just coaxed out of you. He let out a little content hum before leaning down to press a sloppy open mouth kiss to your pussy, his tongue gliding between your lips to gather one more greedy taste of you before moving back.

Right away, he was leaning up your body to kiss your lips, his tongue slipping against yours in a lewd dance between sloppy kisses. Your hands raised to the side of his face, sighing pleasantly between kisses that you returned with fervor. The slight flex of his jaw and the flush of his skin under your palms were details that you couldn’t help but focus on, the whole situation otherwise entirely surreal; something you had been dreaming of since that Paris night.

George moaned softly into your mouth, stealing a few more kisses from your lips before he was pulling back and trailing his large hands up your thighs that framed his body.

You smiled up at him, your fingertips tracing the lines of his muscular torso, “I missed you like crazy, and after that…I’m not afraid to admit it.”

George’s glistening swollen lips pricked up in a faint smile, “Good, because I missed you just as much, if not more.”

Your hands slid down his arms and he turned his palms upwards to accept your hands, your fingers naturally lacing together in the space between you. They fit together so perfectly; but maybe that was just the pleasure hormones that still clouded your senses.

The wind of the storm whistled through the closed curtains and George spoke through it, “I hope you’re not tired out yet. I’ve only just started with you.”

The weight of his words had you biting back a smile, “You know I can handle more.”

Liking the wit of your reply, George nodded once, “Alright. Come on, then.”

He gave your hands a little tug to encourage you to follow him off the couch. You complied, carefully getting to your feet on wobbly legs, leaving one hand in his as he walked you over to the king size bed only a few paces away. He helped you onto the bed first, his eyes not leaving you as he unbuttoned his slacks and let them drop to the floor around his ankles. When he stepped out of them, he rested one knee on the mattress and then the other, joining you on the bed.

You had barely settled yourself in place against the down-filled pillows and the headboard before he was grabbing your ankle and yanking you to the middle of the bed towards him. You yelped in surprise, the sound fading out into a giddy giggle at his action. He shared in your sweet smile as he moved hurriedly to nudge your thighs apart again, setting his hands on the backs of your knees to guide your legs up towards your chest, and he leaned down to lap at your pussy again.

“Fuck, sir-” you squealed out habitually, the title falling from your lips like second nature.

George groaned against you at the sound of your voice addressing him as such as he lowered himself down onto his stomach to get closer to you, his eyes trained on your glistening cunt. He then took your lips in his mouth for a greedy suckle, pulling away to watch them settle back in place. His hand moved towards you and he slicked up two fingers in your dripping pussy, slipping up and down over your cunt that was slick in your cum and his spit.

“God, baby, you taste divine.” he purred, leaning back down to pepper sloppy kisses to your clit while his fingers still caressed the outside of your throbbing cunt cruelly.

“You’re insatiable.” you giggled breathily, draping your arms above your head, legs falling open to the sides to permit him in, eyelashes fluttering.

“Mm,” George pursed his lips and let a string of spit slip onto your clit, watching it drip down to his fingers that picked it up in their precise strokes, “you’re magic.”

He then slid his middle finger inside you slowly, revelling in the small gasp you let out at the gentle intrusion. In gentle motions, he thrusted it into you lazily, easing you into it, and he turned his head to kiss over your inner thigh.

Your pleasant hum was muffled by the rumble of thunder from the storm outside, leaving the two of you in a cocoon of isolation and pleasure. Despite the respite from the rain the hotel suite offered the both of you, you found yourself as soaked as ever, all thanks to George and his natural perfection. The proof was housed in the faint lewd sound of your pussy taking his finger, making the filthiest wet sounds as he thrusted it into you in firm but slow motions.

He groaned softly at the sound, his eyes trained in on the way your cunt hugged his single digit, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth in awe-struck concentration. His other hand slid around your thigh, pulling your leg over his shoulder and, without a word, he leaned down again to give your clit more sloppy kisses while his finger kept its pace inside you.

“My God, how are you so good at this?” you whined to the ceiling, one hand sliding down the pulled tight bed sheets to grasp onto his forearm as he held you on his mouth.

George’s soft chuckle was hot against your damp skin and he pulled away from you again, a thick string of spit and cum connecting his plush lips to your pussy, “You just bring out the best in me, baby.”

You moaned dreamily to the ceiling, “Oh, why did we ever leave Paris?”

“I don’t know.” George answered breathily before sliding a second finger inside you, repeating a little quieter, “I don’t know.”

Your body writhed slightly under the added bit of stretch as he sunk both fingers knuckle deep inside you. Your hand gripped a little tighter to his forearm as he kept your leg over his shoulder, keeping you open for him to do with as he pleased.

“You’re such a good girl for me.” George cooed warmly, starting to move his two fingers in steady thrusts inside you as he leaned down to get his tongue on your clit again.

He had already made you come twice on his mouth but it was clear he wasn’t settling for only twice. Not that you would ever complain as he had you sprawled out on the king size bed, cradled on expensive sheets, catered to generously by his heavenly tongue and fingers. You were already so sensitive that the touch of his tongue almost hurt, making you squirm on the bed sheets with a broken cry to the ceiling.

“Baby-” you whined, elongating the vowels, stretching them out so sweetly, needily.

“Mmm,” George replied against your pussy, his eyes flicking up to look at you as his face was nestled between your thighs. His long lashes kissed the tops of his flushed cheeks with every blink, keeping his attention on your every little reaction as his mouth only helped to slick up his fingers that were still nudging inside you in precise pumps.

Your breathing was falling shallow as you grabbed tighter onto his forearm until indents from the pressure of your fingers were appearing over his skin, choking out a pitchy, “Fuck, fuck, fuck-”

He didn’t let up, keeping his pace going just like that, nudging his two fingers up into that warm squishy spot inside you that had your toes curling. The grip of your hand on his arm had him shifting a little to, instead, intertwine his fingers of his free hand with yours, pinning you down across your bare stomach so you could grip onto his hand instead. Your hips were also starting to jump against his face, over sensitive and so painfully close, and his arm helped to hold you down as he needed you.

You came for the third time with a muted shriek to the ceiling, back arching and jaw clenching and your entire body tensing up. The heel of your foot pressed between his shoulder blades as the tension rolled through you in messy shudders and he worked you right through it on his fingers and tongue. George had you so sensitive and so pleasured that when you came, you were literally leaking down his hand and his wrist. He groaned hungrily at the feeling, dipping his mouth down to lap at your cunt as you creamed around his fingers.

“Oh my God,” you whined, “Holy shit.”

George pulled away from you slowly, a boastful proud smile on his face, his lips and chin glistening salaciously. He sat back on his haunches, situated between your lazily spread legs as your thighs trembled and your chest was heaving for breath. His warm hands caressed your shins, your knees, your thighs, as he stared down at you.

You tried to get your senses about you for a moment, blinking up at him as he knelt above you like that, framed by two of the posts and the top bar of the bed frame like a piece of artwork himself. His handsome face offered you a little wink, his own chest heaving a little too, drawing your attention to the rosy flush that started on his cheeks and spilled down his neck and over his collarbones. He was still in his lounge pants, the front tented very obviously from his arousal, the waistband hanging low on his hips so you could almost see his v-line.

“You alright?” he asked with a soft chuckle.

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice coming out a little rough from your trio of orgasms, and you draped an arm over your forehead, “Jesus.”

George chuckled and leaned down to kiss your lips once, twice, and then you were moving your arm to rest over his shoulder so he could have better access for more kisses. Your shared kisses were breathless and steamy and tasted like pussy but they were from him and so you deemed them to be entirely perfect.

You almost protested when he broke away from your lips, until you saw him reaching for the waistband of his pants and it kept you quiet. With a bite to your bottom lip, you watched as he shuffled down his pants and boxers, letting his achingly hard cock free to the warm air of the hotel suite. George managed to drop the last of his clothes off the side of the bed, leaving his body as bare as yours, knelt before you like a marble statue without tearing his eyes away from your lustful gaze.

“Condoms?” he asked politely, his voice low and warm.

“No.” you replied easily, “I want it like last time.”

“You sure?”

You nodded up at him, dragging your hands down his abs and watching how his muscles flexed under your taunting touch, “Please.”

A small smile flickered over George’s lips as he nudged your legs apart a little wider to shuffle closer at your confirmation. With your legs hooked over his thighs, he could grab your hips and tug you a bit closer and you let him move you how he wanted. You found that although you barely knew him, you had always entirely trusting of him since the moment you had met in that bar in Paris a year ago. In another world, maybe that would have been your fatal flaw but, here, now, he never gave you a reason to doubt him.

George reached over you and grabbed one of the pillows from the top of the bed and shoved it under your hips, presenting you at the perfect height. When you were settled, he exhaled with a quiet, satisfied, “There.”

George leaned forward, setting a hand on the mattress beside your head, while his other dropped between your bodies to angle himself against your messy cunt. Your hands went to his shoulders for something to hold onto, staring up at his handsome face above you as he got situated. It was still hard to believe that this was truly happening; that—after a year—you had yet again ran into him by some twist of fate in another foreign part of the world. Then, his eyes met yours, that piercing blue that rendered you speechless, and, in a cautious push, he eased into you slowly.

You couldn’t help if it was overstated in erotica and adult films, the glorious pressure of his dick sinking into you truly did make your eyes roll back.

George chuckled faintly, rich with pleasure and an ounce of pride, “Mm, my God, you like that, baby?”

“Yeah,” you nearly purred, sliding your hands over his shoulders to link your hands together behind his neck as your eyelashes fluttered, “you feel so perfect.”

“Yeah? You feel incredible for me, my darling.” he praised warmly, leaning down to lock your lips in a passionate kiss as he bottomed out inside you, filling you entirely.

You moaned softly against his lips from his velvet words, clutching onto the back of his neck at the burning pressure across your hips as your body stretched to accommodate him. He slowly started to move, grinding into you sensually so you could feel every thick inch of him as deep as he could go until your eyes started to burn with tears.

“M’my God.” you withered, fingers grasping at the roots of his hair, breaking your kiss as your head tilted back against the pillow. He was so deep that the pleasure of his presence was walking on a tightrope with hints of pain, enough that it gave you just what you wanted and just what you had craved for months and months.

George eased out of you a little more, starting to find a proper pace as he sped up the rhythm of his hips just enough to pull a warm moan from his chest. His eyes locked on yours beneath him, his forearms pressed flat to the mattress on either side of your head, holding him only centimeters above you, powerful and glorious. You could have stared at him for hours just like that.

As he found a sustainable pace that was equal parts thrilling and gloriously savouring, the steady pace of his cock pistoning into you created the most lewd sound that filled the hotel suite. The sounds of the heavy rain through the windows was nothing compared to the squelch of your cunt pulling him in with every firm thrust.

George let out a low groan, speaking to you in words bathed in lust, “Jesus, you’re so fucking creamy, baby…just listen to that…”

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip despite your smile up at him, hands tight on the back of his neck as you stared into each other’s eyes. You held your breath for a moment to just listen, dizzy on the reality of how wet he had made you that his every thrust sounded absolutely soaking. Your heart raced. Oh, God, it was true that only he could do this to you; you were sure you were entirely doomed.

The sound of it had the two of you sharing soft breathy laughs that were soon swallowed up by more kisses. Everything was so wet—your tongue-led kisses, the connection of your bodies, the storm raging through the closed curtains—and you wanted to linger in it forever. With your legs draped over his thighs, he could reach generously deep with every precise curling thrust, taking you over with such ease.

Your hands slid down from his neck, pressing your fingers into the muscle of his back instead, holding him on top of you as he kissed you breathless. It was hardly considered kissing anymore as the two of you were so drunk on lust that you were more so just licking into each other’s mouths, dizzy on the pleasure of your bodies tangled together on the luxury bed. Grinding and writhing and tugging, the two of you moved together in a lazy, needy sea of sheets and limbs, feeling entirely satisfied and yet not satisfied enough.

George’s fingers slid into your hair, grasping gently onto the roots as his lips broke away from yours to let his breath fall in pants against your flushed cheek. He groaned handsomely as he continued his slow, deep, curling thrusts into your pliant body, holding you in place to keep looking at each other in unbreakable longing gazes.

“God, you’re gorgeous.” he exhaled, voice strained in lust, “You look perfect…you feel perfect.”

Your hands dragged down his back and back up again, confessing in a whispered, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” he responded easily.

His fingers scratched gently against your scalp, just adding to the dizzyingly beautiful moment you were sharing as he stared into your eyes in the dim warm light of the hotel suite. He was inside you but you felt like he still wasn’t close enough. Your legs shifted and you linked your ankles behind his back, heels pressing into the flesh of his ass to pull him into his every flexing thrust.

George moaned lowly, his panted breath hot against your cheek, his eyes heavy-lidded and dreamy. He bucked his hips against yours a little harder, punctuating every thrust with a bit more emphasis, forcing a gasp from your throat every time.

“Mm, fuck, George-” you withered, voice tight as your fingers pressed tighter into the flesh of his back, staring up into his star-studded eyes.

“Yeah-” he groaned warmly. “That’s it…”

You were so attuned to the way he fucked you, the way he tended to you so generously, that every stroke had your mind taken up with nothing but thoughts of his perfect dick.

With a sudden urge to repay the favour, you slid your hands down to his chest and gently pushed at his pecs to ease him back. George literally whined in protest but took your hint, stopped, and carefully pulled out, his gaze searching yours for some explanation why you cut it short when it was feeling so good.

“You okay?” he asked breathily.

“Yeah, just-” you shifted on the bed to move from laying on your back to your knees.

George ran a hand through his hair as he sat back on his haunches, his chest heaving as his eyes followed your every move. You shifted around to face him properly, lowering down almost onto your stomach, ass up, until you were eyelevel with his dick. It was still glistening with your essence, slicked up in you, and a small pearl of precome slipped out of the tip as if to prove how achingly hard he was for you.

You wrapped a hand around him and leaned down to lick it up, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head, before finally sinking your mouth down around him. George let out a soft hiss at the first touch, his head dropping back just a little.

“O-Oh my-” he exhaled shakily, bunching your hair back out of your face and holding it in a makeshift ponytail in one hand to watch as you started to bob your head into his lap. “Jesus-” he withered, his tongue darting out to lick his lips before his teeth were sinking into his bottom one.

The weight of him on your tongue made you salivate with desire so much that it was almost embarrassing, dribbling down the shaft of his dick and over your hand as you worked him off. You let out a hungry moan, hollowing your cheeks a little on every up stroke to really lean into that greedy suction that made his eyes roll.

“Yeah…good girl.” he groaned handsomely, “You know just what I like, don’t you, baby?”

You hummed in agreement around his cock in your mouth, eyelashes fluttering closed to give him your full focus, bobbing your head a little more insistently in time with the twisting tugs of your hand. It made the most lewd sound as you took him into your mouth over and over, overpowering the noise of the storm through the closed curtains with the wet squelch of your mouth instead.

“Mhm…you’re just loving this cock like a good girl, aren’t you?” he purred, his free hand sliding down between your shoulder blades and over the curve of your ass in the air as he watched you intently. There was that stunning dirty talk he seemed to offer so effortlessly; the kind that no one else seemed to be able to match since Paris. It just made you want to give him more, desperate to pull more of that wonderful praise from his filthy mouth. George gave your ass a little smack, “Yeah, you are. Perfect girl…perfect mouth.”

You moaned around him, keeping the pace of your mouth going even at the slightly awkward angle leaning downwards from your knees. But how could you ever think about moving when his hand was caressing the curve of your ass and his fingers were teasing over your sopping pussy, taunting you with what you wanted.

Silently pleading with him, you pulled your mouth off his dick with a thick string of spit still connecting you while your eyes looked up his toned body to his flushed face. He looked like a marble statue like that; his muscles firm and precise and glorious, and you leaned in to press a wet kiss just under his navel. Your hand kept stroking his cock while you trailed slow open mouthed kisses along the stripe of downy hair that lead to the base of his dick, showering him in adoration.

George groaned prettily from above you, his fingers gently rubbing at your pussy until he was sinking two inside you. You nuzzled your face into his trimmed hair, breathing him in through a pleasant moan as he started to finger you lazily. With your hand still moving on him, you turned your head to the side to drag your tongue along the shaft of his dick, your hot breath mingling with your spit to have him shivering.

“Oh my God, baby,” he groaned gorgeously, pulling his fingers out of you to smear your creamy arousal up to your asshole, “this okay?”

“Mm…mhm…” you mumbled against him.

George pulled his hand back to spit on his fingers too before lowering them back down to prod at your asshole before slowly sinking one inside. You smothered your tight groan by stuffing his dick back in your mouth, letting him feel the vibrations of your balance of slight pain and immense pleasure. He was gentle with you—he always had been, even back in Paris—giving you a few seconds to adjust to the intrusion before he was then pushing two fingers into your cunt at the same time.

Your eyes fluttered shut with a groan around his dick, struggling to keep a pace as he lazily fingered you like that. He was still sitting back on his heels, knees spread to give your face ample space to fit between his thighs as you went down on him like a woman starved. The distraction of his fingers had his one hand that was still holding your hair back starting to tighten a little.

“You can take more, can’t you?” he cooed down to you, gently pushing at the back of your head to try and guide you deeper on his dick, “Loosen that pretty throat of yours and let me in.”

You were never one to deny him anything and so you let yourself take him a little deeper by the guidance of his grasp on your hair. Your hands dropped to the bed sheets beneath him, fingers fisting the expensive white linen while you gagged around him as he reached the back of your throat.

George withered from above you, his voice thick with lust, “That’s it…that’s it, baby. Ohh, yes-”

You could feel yourself pulsing around his fingers buried inside you at the salacious tone of his voice; the pure, raw pleasure that dripped from his every word. Craving more of that, you forced yourself deeper, forcing yourself to choose him over air, burying yourself down his cock until your nose touched the coarse hair dotting his pelvis. Gagging sloppily, you could feel your throat constricting around him, tears burning your eyes as he took up every one of your senses.

His fingers pulled out of you with a sharp intake of breath from his chest, his hand blindly reaching out to grasp onto one of the posts of the bed frame for support, smearing glistening remnants of your pleasure over the expensive wood. You pulled off of him to breathe, gasping through a wet cough as thick strings of spit connected your lips to the tip of his cock, streaking up your hand in it as you stroked him off in needy flicks of your wrist.

Barely taking a second to catch your breath, you nuzzled downwards to get your mouth on his balls, tonguing at them pathetically as if you wanted to cover every last inch of him in your physical appreciation. George’s hand was still tangled in your hair, the once almost neat make-shift ponytail now down to a messy fistful grasp, and his fingers tightening in your roots as he pulled your face downwards some more. His panted breaths and handsome moans were incentive enough.

The sound of your mouth on him was lewd but you just lowered your chest towards the bed some more, wanting to keep giving and giving and giving. It was hard to keep the pace of your hand on his dick with your head nearly under him but you weren’t one to give up; certainly not when the challenge involved him.

“Hang on-” George panted, gently guiding you back a little so he could change his position.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and watched with lust-blown eyes as he shifted into a proper sitting position in front of you, propped up on his arms with his legs spread wide. He cocked his head to you—an invitation to ‘come here’—and you crawled closer.

Sliding down onto your arms between his legs, you were smiling like a kid in a candy shop, trailing kisses up one of his muscular thighs before settling in place. Your arms looped under his thighs, helping him get a little more adjusted in silent discussion before you were dipping down to lick at his perineum.

George’s head fell back with a tight groan, adjusting to the feeling of your mouth on him again after almost a year. You couldn’t help the thrill that ran through you, moving a hand to gently cup his balls and lift them out of the way so you could move deeper between his spread legs. Your tongue lapped at his asshole, teasing it just a little as your eyes fluttered closed. It was easy to let the lust and need drive you, guiding you into instinctive motions of licking and kissing wetly at his tight rim of muscle just to pull more sweet sounds from his pouted lips.

“Ohh, yeah. I missed you so much, darling.” he withered to the ornate ceiling.

You hummed pleasantly against him, using your entire flat tongue to tend to him in greedy licks until you were almost making out with his asshole. Your messy hand blindly moved up to grab onto his swollen cock, giving him a few messy tugs at the same time, giving him as much as you could. Back in Paris, you never really got a chance to linger in this moment, really tend to him in ways no one had before, far too consumed with his promise of more. But here, now, you wanted to give him all that he deserved.

Your free hand pressed your fingernails into the flesh of his thighs as you continued to swirl your tongue around his asshole, prodding at it, lapping at all the right places that pulled more of those sweet sounds from his mouth. You nuzzled your face closer, pushing your tongue inside just a little, loving the way he honestly whimpered. You could have stayed down there for hours just making him feel good, showering him in well deserved affection and adoration until he saw stars. Unfortunately, your neck started to cramp before you could satisfy that visceral craving.

Smoothly, you pulled away with one more wet tongue-led kiss and moved up his body instead to lean in towards his lips. George didn’t even flinch as his hand came up to cradle your face and he guided you in for a sloppy kiss. Your lips locked like second nature, tongues clashing with practiced ease even after your year apart. Your hunger for him was at extenuating heights, burning hot through your veins, and you found yourself almost crawling onto his lap as he was still splayed out over the bed on his elbows.

“Okay-” George chuckled into your mouth, sliding his hand down to your throat to gently let your kisses slow, “wait, wait.”

You paused long enough to let him adjust himself to be laying flat on the bed, having to scoot downwards a little so as to not have his head hanging off the end. His feet kicked the decorative pillows to the floor to give his lanky body room to stretch out but his hands were greedily pulling you back on top of him. His large hands fit perfectly on your hips, almost manhandling you to straddle his lap again, and you didn’t need instruction to reach between you and angle his dick up against your almost neglected pussy.

You were so fucking wet that it barely took any effort to sink down on him, allowing you to bottom out easily in one smooth motion. The both of you shared pleasured exhales as your eyes found each other again through the warmly lit hotel suite and your hands dropped down gently against his flushed and heaving chest. Without a second needed to adjust, you both began to move with an unparalleled need; as if you were both addicts finally receiving the hit of the drug you so craved.

“Yeah-” you squeaked out a little as his upwards thrusts met your insistent bounces right on.

“Mm,” George groaned underneath you, his teeth sunken into his bottom lip and his hands holding tightly to your hips, “fucking hell.”

He stared up at you with blown wide eyes, the aquamarine of his irises almost eclipsed with the black of his pupils. The room was filled with a chorus of panted breaths and pleasured moans and the lewd clap of slick skin on skin, the heat between you rising tenfold. You could hardly keep your eyes open as he rammed up into you from below, your bounces fading to a stop as he took you over with overwhelming power. He could take whatever he wanted for you; he always did so extremely well, anyway.

Your hair was falling into your face with how you were leaning over him a little and he didn’t hesitate before he was letting go of your hips to raise his hands up to tuck your hair behind your ears. In doing so, he then grabbed two snug handfuls of the hair at the nape of your neck to hold it back for you, also holding your head in place to keep your eyes on his.

“Ohh my God, baby-” you whimpered, fingernails pressing into his pecs.

“Yeah?” George gave you a little reassuring nod through his honey-sweet coo, his full eyebrows raising a little as he watched your every expression, “Yeah, just like this?”

“Yes, sir.” you cried out. Your voice was almost trembling as much as your legs.

His strength and energy was unrelenting, shoving up into you in rapid succession that had you almost seeing stars from how incredibly good it felt. Your hands, one at a time, moved from his chest to land heavily on the mattress on either side of his head, struggling to hold yourself upright. The sounds that tumbled from your mouth hardly felt like they were your own; so out of your mind with pleasure as tears burned the corners of your eyes that you let your instincts take over, pouring moans and whimpers and breaths of his name to the walls of the hotel suite.

“I know, I know,” George purred to your sounds of ecstasy through his own slight breathlessness from his exertion, still staring up at your face, “You’re taking it like such a good girl, baby.”

He kept one hand in the back of your hair, gripped in a tight fist, and tugged your head back a little to keep that addicting balance of pain and pleasure coursing through your body. His other hand dropped down to deliver a sharp slap (or two or three) to your ass as he fucked up into you in relentless pumps, branding the quivering flesh in a pink blush. You arched your back just a little under the stinging impact, only causing yourself to be positioned on top of him at that perfect angle to have him ramming into your g-spot dead on.

Your noises halted suddenly in your chest, the air freezing in your lungs, the pleasure just tearing through you as you gaped dumbly to the closed curtains across the room. The sensations filled you up to the brim until you felt like you might entirely combust from it all. This was a dream. Oh, God, this had to be a fucking dream.

George groaned tightly from underneath you, speaking through his teeth, “I love it when you’re loud but I love it even more when you go silent…fuck.”

You could barely hear yourself choke out his name in the most pathetic sounding voice. The bed sheets beneath him were bunched in your white-knuckled grip, tighter and tighter, as you felt every nerve ending inside you coiling and burning hot. A single tear slipped out of the corner of your eye, trailing past your fluttering eyelashes and flushed cheek, hopeless with pleasure.

“You wanna come for me, darling?” George spoke up to you, his breath hot against your face, addicting. His words spoke wonders to those buzzing nerve endings of yours, sizzling in your brain, pleasure injected into your veins with every syllable, “Come all over my cock…show me who it belongs to. That’s it…come on.”

Your pussy gripped around him tighter and tighter with your impending orgasm threatening to hit you at any moment, making you feel so much more full of him. George grunted hard beneath you at the added effort it took to keep thrusting up into you when you got like that, having to grip onto your hip and your hair a little tighter.

“Come on.” he groaned tightly, determination throbbing through his veins, “Fucking come for me, baby.”

It hit you like a train, knocking the air out of you for a second as the prickling pleasure took you over in drowning waves and made your ears ring. Your entire body quivered on top of him uncontrollably, desperate moans and cries tumbling from your pouted, swollen lips. George matched your harmonies perfectly, making the handsomest sounds beneath you as the vice-like grip of your orgasm had his head tossing back against the bed with a strained groan. The veins in his neck bulged a little as he tensed up, releasing your hair to grab your hips in both hands.

Your right hand flew back to his chest for some sort of stability as his thrusts stuttered for a moment and you greedily pushed yourself back on him in taunting bounces, finishing him off in seconds. George’s large hands gripped at your ass, almost subconsciously pulling your cheeks apart as if to keep himself as deep as humanly possible as he came.

There was no feeling you missed more in the prior year than that of him filling you up in thick warm spurts. Your eyes fluttered with bliss as your teeth sank into your bottom lip, moaning softly at the salacious feeling; something saved only for him. As you trembled on top of him, your hand on his heaving chest pressed little crescents into his pecs as you peered down between your bodies, pushing down on him in a few lazy motions to help him ride out his orgasm.

“Fucking hell.” George finally stumbled out when he could finally catch his bearings, his accent thick and slurred with pleasure.

You could only let out a breathy giggle and you carefully shifted off of him and collapsed into a puddle on the mattress beside him, falling perfectly into the crook of his arm. George sighed warmly and turned his head to press a smiling kiss to your temple, his arm tightening around your shoulders to draw you closer. It was easy to melt into him like that; as if you were meant to be at his side, your body moulding against the shape of his like second nature, your arm snaked around his middle in return. The silent hotel room welcomed your shared panted breaths to the high ornate ceiling, chests rising and falling in time.

George’s lips were resting against your temple still, his eyes contently closed, just trying to catch his bearings. The heat of his every breath fell against your face, reminding you just how real this all was. Your arm tightened around him. Your hand fit perfectly around the side of his torso; feeling how his body was lean and firm with muscle, tightening and relaxing under your palm with his every heavy breath. George let out a small hum, his fingers wrapping around your forearm as you held him like that, skin against flushed skin.

“I’m always just waiting to wake up right now.” George confessed in a whisper into your hair before leaving a kiss to the same spot.

You let a small smile prick at the corner of your mouth at his words, replying with a soft, “Me too.”

“God,” he breathed, tipping his head back toward the ceiling as his arm stretched above, easing comfortably into the moment. He held you close, tucked securely under his other arm, “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

His fingers danced idly over your bare shoulder, rising shivers in their wake.

He then added a gentle, “With me.”

You turned into him a little more, draping a leg over one of his just to make sure your bodies were pressed together as closely as possible. You then lifted your head up from his arm and leaned in to press a soft kiss to his cheek and then another to the corner of his mouth, and he effortlessly turned his face towards you to accept a third kiss to his lips.

It was a little ungraceful with how you were both smiling into it but it didn’t phase either of you. Your hand slid over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin under your fingertips and the faint dusting of hair between his pecs, absentmindedly touching him as your lips locked in lingering sensual kisses. His tongue played lazily against yours, delicate and sweet, both of you just wanting to feel close to each other after the intense passion you had shared.

Finally, after a blissful eternity, you broke away from his lips to reply to his earlier statement, bumping your nose against his, “Nowhere else I’d rather be, really.”

George’s face broke into a handsome grin and he tangled his hand in the back of your hair to pull your lips on his for another kiss. You rested down against his chest, matching the pace of his lips with breathless fervor, unable to get enough of him or to truly be entirely satisfied but in the best way possible.

When you broke apart again, he rested his head back down on the bed with a content sigh. He slid his hand along the side of your face and he swiped the pad of his thumb over your swollen bottom lip, staring at you warmly. Your fingers drummed against his chest before you spoke as you started to get up, “I’m just going to get some water and towel.”

“I’ll get it.” George jumped in politely.

“Oh-”

He shifted out from underneath you and gently guided you to lay back properly against the bed and the headboard before he disappeared into the bathroom without another word. You couldn’t help the smile that grew across your face in your moment alone, stretching wider and wider until it became an absolute grin. You felt amazing—your body felt amazing—and he was the perfect gentleman, just how you had remembered and sworn into your memory.

George returned only seconds later with one of the hotels plush white towels over his arm and two glasses of water in hand. He was still entirely naked with faint remnants of his gentle blush down the sides of his neck and over his chest, hair tousled and eyes shining.

“Here you are.” he said gently as he reached the side of the bed and held out one of the glasses to you.

“Thank you.” you replied in a soft whisper.

He then passed over the towel to you next and you adjusted your position against the pillows and headboard to spread your legs and mop yourself up a little from the mess that was leaking out of you. You didn’t stress too much about it and, rather, tucked the towel under your bum instead so you could focus on your hydration and the handsome man that was joining you on the bed.

“You know,” you spoke casually as you lifted your water glass to your lips, “your refractory period is insane.”

George smiled at your statement, almost pridefully, and he explained with a shrug as he situated himself into the spot beside you, “I do a lot of cardio.”

You figured that was a euphemism for something else; something relating to the hints he gave to you back in Paris about his lack of desire to settle down. You ignored the unforeseen pang in your chest as you replied playfully, “Should I be jealous?”

George chuckled warmly, “No, like, genuinely cardio…at the gym.”

“Oh,” you let out a breathy laugh along with him, trying not to sound too relieved, “makes sense.”

There was a moment of silence as you both sipped your water; thick but not awkward. You mind pondered his admission of his gym-going tendencies. It explained a lot in terms of how he was in bed; how easily he could manipulate you, how long he could last, not to mention how he looked. Your eyes drifted back to his backpack still sitting on one of the couches across the spacious hotel suite, hiding many secrets within.

His lips on your jaw startled you back to reality for a moment. Breaking into a bashful smile at his slow kiss, you let out a small pleasant hum, lifting your water glass for one more sip. At some point while you were momentarily distracted, he had put his glass down on the small table beside the bed, leaving his hand free and faintly cold from the water to ghost over the side of your neck. You shivered, tilting your head to the side instinctively to give him room to lick a warm stripe up the side of your neck before leaving soft open-mouthed kisses under your ear. He nipped at your earlobe.

“You up for round two?” he asked, his voice warm and low in his chest.

“Round two? More like round five.” you countered with a dreamy chuckle, counting out how many times he had brought you to orgasm that night thus far. You followed it up with, “You can go again already?”

“Just about.” George's breath sent chills down your neck as his thumb, resting firmly on the side of your throat, slid slowly around your throat with deliberate purpose. “If I keep kissing you a little longer…”

His hand drifted away from your throat and down your naked body, his head resting against yours as his lust-blown eyes trailed his fingers down to your chest and he pinched one of your nipples lazily.

“...If you keep laying here like a fucking goddess a little longer.”

You turned your face towards his so you were forehead to forehead, tilting yours up slightly to meet his lips in a sensual kiss. When his lips parted wider to expertly swallow up yours, his hand splayed entirely around your breast and gave it a firm squeeze at the same time, pulling a shaky exhale from your nose. You grabbed him by the back of the neck, pulling him impossibly closer, licking your way into his mouth until the coldness of his tongue from his water made you shiver.

When you pulled away long enough to set your glass safely on the bedside table, his eyes followed your every move with a hunger you couldn’t ignore. The heat sizzled between you, his touches over your chest, your body, feeling like a chemical reaction at the atomic level. It lured you towards him again, that natural magnetic pull you felt towards each other since the first moment your eyes met in that Paris bar almost a year earlier.

You moved back in to kiss him again, but George turned his head slightly, letting your lips graze his cheek. He lingered there, savoring the charged closeness between you, and his breath came soft and steady, drawing out the tension before he finally spoke.

“Maybe you could, like,” George licked his lips, watching his fingers swirl around the hardened bud of your nipple, “play with yourself a little for me?”

His voice was as smooth as fine whiskey, rolling through your body like intoxicated warmth. You let his words settle over you, full of intense desire and need that only you could fulfil.

“You really want that?” you questioned faintly.

George nodded with a low hum as if he were already imagining it. His blue eyes raised to meet your gaze, insistent and sure of himself, drawing you into this orbit of salacious ideas and lustful exploration. It all swirled all around you. Then, without thinking, your gaze drifted back across the room to your suitcase positioned beside the couch.

“Wait here.” you said.

George’s eyes followed you as you got up from beside him and patted over to your bags in the nude. He tucked an arm behind his head as he lounged back comfortably on the king size bed, curiously watching you as you unzipped your suitcase. You rifled through your pristinely packed items before coming out with your toiletry bag and finally unzipping that as well. Finally, you found what you were looking for.

When you returned to the bed, setting one knee on the plush mattress and then the other, you held your bullet vibrator out to him with a cheeky grin. George’s eyes flashed with intrigue and almost a hint of pride, a sly smile spreading across his face. He grabbed you around the waist and yanked you back down beside him.

Giggling at his impetuous pull, you fell against the pillow beside him again, slinging your arm around his shoulders as he dipped down to kiss you smoothly. His hand impatiently went to nudge your legs apart but you were already spreading them yourself, welcoming his fingers against your leaking cunt in messy caresses that pulled eager moans from both of your chests. The towel beneath you wrinkled.

You broke away from his lips to look down your body, pressing the power button of your vibrator as you did so until the steady buzz filled the hotel room. George let out a warm, impatient hum. For the week you had been in Milan for this business trip, you had resorted to your trusty vibrator at night a few times, your mind having wandered to memories of him. And now, on your last night in the city, your fantasies were personified into the handsome man lounged out naked beside you on the king size bed.

The touch of the vibrator against your clit made you flinch. A smirk pricked at the corner of George’s mouth as he stared down at you, propped up on one hand on the mattress with his entire body turned towards you. His perfectly straight teeth sunk into his bottom lip, his eyes drifting down your bare chest, your stomach, your hips, to where your hand was between your legs.

He watched you for a second in silence, his free hand moving to gently caress your leg, his slender fingers tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He had satisfied you greatly since you had come together in that hotel room but also left you so sensitive to touch that the buzzing toy almost felt like too much. You grazed it ever so faintly over your swollen clit, just enough to fill your veins with warmth and make your breathing a little heavier; just enough to get you going again for him.

George’s hand kept its firm caresses along your inner thigh, his blue eyes focused on your hand moving lazily between your legs. He licked his lips, his voice sure of himself as he asked cockily, “Did you think of me when you touched yourself this last year?”

“Yeah,” you exhaled, the rising pleasure making you all too honest, “every time.”

The chuckle that left his lips was low and rumbling, his reply nothing more than an exhale, “I thought of you too.”

George drifted his hand closer towards you, fingers barely touching the outside of your pussy, just under where you held your vibrator. He teased you with the ghostly presence of his touch, pulling a needy whine from your throat while your hips fainty tried to move towards his hand. Your head spun with the confession that he thought of you when he got himself off too…the assurance that it hadn’t been just a one sided longing over the last year. You wondered if he was just as pathetic as you: thinking about your night together while having sex with other people, everyone else just so unfulfilling in comparison.

Giving into you without hesitation, George slicked two fingers up in the slickness of your pussy and then slowly sunk them inside you. Your head arched back against the pillow with a strangled gasp, your vibrator gently sliding back and forth over your clit in languid motions that he matched the pace of with his fingers.

While doing so, he continued his thought aloud, “This whole year I couldn’t stop thinking of how it felt to come inside you…how you begged for it.”

“George…” you withered.

“And now look at you, here with me again, filled right up.” he purred, fingers curling a little more insistently inside you, but his eyes were now focused right on your face.

Despite the towel beneath you that was still catching the excess cum that leaked out of you, there was still enough for George’s fingers to be making the lewdest squelching sound with every precise thrust. His eyebrows furrowed slightly as the sound filled the room, harmonized with your panted breaths and little whimpers and the rustle of sheets as you squirmed on the bed and grabbed the duvet in a tight grip.

But then he was pulling his fingers out and snatching the vibrator from your hand and turning it off with nothing more than a firm, “Come here.”

You heaved for breath at the sudden absence of touch, blinking over at him as he moved off the bed to stand at the side, his other hand grabbing your ankle to pull you after him. His insistence had you giggling, following his lead to situate yourself at the edge of the bed, legs naturally falling open for him. You draped your hair out over the crinkled bed sheets as the heat was once again rising over your skin.

George set the vibrator between his lips so he could wrap both hands around your thighs and yank you closer to the edge of the bed with a small grunt, positioning you right where he wanted you. You stared up at him standing before you, his naked body bathed in the warm light of the hotel suite, and as your eyes raked down his toned figure, you could see how hard he was again. He pulled the vibrator from his lips, leaving it between his fingers like a cigarette, as his large hands slid up your legs, angling them straight up his torso until your calves were resting on his shoulders.

“Oh my God.” you groaned at the visual of the position you found yourselves in, the godlike power he held as he loomed over you like that.

“Yeah?” George taunted as he adjusted his footing on the rich hardwood floors. “Already so needy and whiny and I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“Please,” you peered up at him under heavy lashes, “please, fuck me.”

“Mm, such a good girl.” George purred, using his hand with the vibrator to keep your legs against his shoulders while his other moved to slide his fingers over your slick pussy.

He rubbed his four fingers between your lips in sloppy, ungraceful movements just to hear how wet you were—and to slick his hand up in it. Because then he was wrapping his fingers around the base of his cock and slapping the tip against your clit a few times.

You squeaked in surprise, habitually trying to close your legs with how sensitive you still were, but he held the power over you to keep you how he wanted you: legs open. George kept slapping the heavy head of his dick against your cunt a few more times, just to watch you squirm and to hear how fucking soaked you were.

“George-” you whined, your voice shaky and pitchy and so unlike your voice that you hardly recognized it when it spilled past your lips.

He didn’t offer a reply and he didn’t need to, simply angling his cock just right to sink so effortlessly into you. Your eyes locked on each other’s almost instinctively at that moment, faces fluttering with pleasure as your bodies connected once more, sharing withering exhales as he sunk deeper into you until he filled you completely. You could feel the heat of his firm thighs against the curve of your ass, proving how closely you were intertwined.

“Motherfucker.” George swore through his teeth, an expletive almost entirely out of character for him; so straight to the point and vulgar. His eyelashes fluttered shut and just as they did you could have sworn his eyes were almost rolling.

His hips pulled back slowly and when he shoved them back into you, he let out a tight grunt, his hands tight around your ankles on either side of his head. You sank your teeth into your bottom lip, staring up at him as he started to set a steady pace, his testing thrusts forcing gentle, needy moans from your throat.

“Yeah…good girl.” he purred, dropping a hand down to push two fingers in your mouth, “Good fucking girl…such an insatiable little cockslut, aren’t you, darling?”

Your lips wrapped around his fingers with ease, sucking on them greedily as if using them as some way to ground yourself in reality, and you replied to him with an agreeable hum that was muffled by his two digits. George thrusted into you a little harder, a little faster, his jaw clenching as if in intense concentration, holding himself back and yet still wanting to give you everything he could. He wasn’t going crazy with it, just precise, firm thrusts that gave you that warm addicting pressure of being stretched and filled.

When your head tilted back against the bed with a moan, his fingers slipped out of your mouth, dropping a string of spit over your chin. His hand, instead, went smoothly to your neck, slender fingers wrapping around your throat with a firm squeeze that had you inhaling sharply. George shoved into you in harder strokes, the intensity making your eyes scrunch closed and you let out a broken moan to the ceiling. You could feel him everywhere and so fucking deep. Your hands dropped to try and grab his hips to ease him up from the overwhelm but he was persistent.

He asked down to you lustfully, “Think you got one more in there for me, baby?”

You didn’t even need to think of an answer before it fell from your lips, “Yes, sir.”

“Yeah? Want me to make you come again?” George taunted.

“Yes, sir. Please, sir.” you whined, nails scratching over his hips a little.

Your eyes were still screwed shut as his sharp thrusts into your body had you burning with red hot ecstasy. It was only when the familiar buzz of your vibrator returned did you open your eyes and you heaved your head up to watch as he set the tip of the toy against your clit.

“Ah!” you yelped as your entire body flinched at the touch, paired so torturously with the strong pistoning of his hips. You inhaled sharply through your teeth, “Fuck!”

“Hold that there for me, baby.” George demanded sweetly, his voice like honey.

You dropped a hand down to take the vibrator from him so you could hold it right where you needed it. You mouthed a silent ‘yes’ up at him, eyes locked on his intense gaze as he kept fucking into you.

“Good girl.” he breathed warmly.

George adjusted his stance at the side of the bed a little, leaning back ever so slightly so his every thrust was angled a bit more upwards than inwards. Of course, a few more strokes and hairline adjustments and he was soon finding that soft, squishy spot inside you that had your free hand flying down to grab his forearm to dig your nails into his skin.

“Fuck me!” you squeaked, head arching back against the bed with a broken cry.

George held a proud smirk on his face, both hands holding your legs over his shoulders so you couldn’t run away, shoving into you in those rough rapid thrusts right where you needed him most. You heaved for breath, staring up at him in an expression that almost looked like you were entirely in pain but, in reality, you both knew it was from the pure raw pleasure that was overtaking you.

It all felt so overwhelming that your hand moved the vibrator off your clit, needing a moment of respite from the intensity of it all. But George was all too attuned to you and he reminded you firmly, “Hold it there.”

You whimpered up at him, settling the buzzing toy down against your aching swollen clit. The combination between its vibrations and the thick pressure of his dick shoving into you in perfect precise thrusts had tears starting to leak from your eyes and trace streaks down your cheeks. Your hand pulled away again.

“Do you need me to do it?” George asked but didn’t wait for an answer before he reached down to grab your wrist to make you hold the vibrator to your clit. His grip was firm, preventing you from moving away, but everything he did was all for you; he wanted to give you exactly what you deserved.

“George-” you sobbed out in a whiney voice that stretched out all of the syllables of his name. Your back arched off the bed, legs desperately trying to close him out but his other arm was holding them firmly up against his chest, keeping them nicely spread just enough for him to have that space to fuck into.

“Mhm?” he egged you on, his voice thick with exertion, barely heard behind the buzzing of the vibrator and the ringing of pleasure in your ears, “You gonna cum for me, baby?”

“Ohh my God!” you whimpered, throwing your free hand across the bed to grab onto the sheets, desperate for something to relieve you of your fast approaching orgasm that coiled inside you at impressive speed. Your toes curled over his shoulders, stuck in place with how he held you, dizzy on the rising pleasure and the heat that slicked your skin in sweat. But that building sensation within the depths of your body was a long awaited one; something you had only ever felt once before in your life…with him.

“God, look at you.” George said through his teeth, still holding your hand with the vibrator against your clit as he fucked you on the side of the bed.

The sound that came out of your mouth was somewhere between a moan and a sob, struggling to formulate words to tell him all that he was doing to you. He rendered you absolutely speechless in the best way. All you could manage was an ungraceful chant of “yes, yes, yes” in time with his rough thrusts that gradually grew in pitch until you were almost squealing.

For a second, your entire body almost went completely numb, vision going a little blurry around the edges, and your head tossed back against the bed with a cry that almost echoed through the high ceilings of the hotel suite. George pulled out of you for a moment, letting the gush of liquid release from you, spraying all over his abs and thighs and pelvis and soaking the edge of the bed.

His hand kept yours pinned to your clit, forcing the vibrator to keep helping you ride out the intense orgasm as he slapped the head of his cock through the messy spurts of liquid that just kept coming out of you, praising you loudly, “Ohh, that’s it! That’s what I wanted! Good fucking girl.”

It almost felt like an out of body experience with your head so fuzzy on pleasure for a second you were sure you were dreaming, his voice sounding so echoed and far away. But then he plunged back into you, dropping a hand against the mattress on either side of your head, and started fucking into you again. It was so much wetter now—so filthily lewd—and the slap of soaked skin on skin filled the hotel suite like ease.

Your hand dropped the vibrator absentmindedly to the bed in favour of grabbing onto him as he leaned over top of you, your ankles still against his shoulders even as your legs were literally quivering. George moaned handsomely above you, his prince-like features contorted in pleasure; jaw clenched and full eyebrows furrowed as he stared down at you. His brunette waves fell over his forehead and almost in his eyes, bouncing in time with his every sharp thrust.

Only a few strokes later and he was coming too, his eyes squeezing shut and his entire body tensing with the muscles of his back flexing under your hands. He moaned handsomely, the look of pure euphoria on his face almost being enough to make you see stars if not for the feeling of him spurting warmly inside you. Despite it being his second orgasm of the night, he came so much, lasting longer than you had expected and filling you right up.

Your voice was shaking as he pulled out of you slowly, “Oh my God.”

“Jesus Christ.” George exhaled.

You heaved your head up to look down between your trembling legs as he gently pushed your soaking wet thighs open wider, giving you both a clear visual of how your cunt pulsed through the aftershocks of your orgasm and started to push out globs of creamy white. George licked his lips.

He looked back up at your face, “You alright?”

You smiled up at him and rested your head back down against the bed, draping an arm over your head while your chest heaved with breathlessness, “Yeah.”

With your legs splayed lazily open, he leaned back down over you to steal a kiss. Your other arm slung lazily around his shoulders to keep him there while you shared a few sloppy breathless kisses. When George pulled away again—this time to breathe—the vibrator that had been discarded in the sheets fell to the floor, noisily rattling and buzzing against the hardwood.

“Fuck.” George muttered and bent down to retrieve it and turn it off.

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows to look down at yourself and the mess left behind. The expensive sheets were darkened wet beneath you and likely also down the side of the bed while your flushed, sweaty skin was also glistening in wetness between your thighs and over George’s abs and pelvis and leaking down his legs.

“You’re magic.” you breathed in near awe.

George looked at you from under his mess of hair as he set the vibrator on the bedside table and he broke out into a modest smile, “Why’s that?”

“You’re the only one who can make me squirt.” you confessed dreamily, “God, that’s insane.”

He chuckled warmly and leaned in to give you a few soft kisses, before whispering right to you, “I’m glad I can do that for you.”

The two of you shared a smile and your hand rested on the back of his neck, pulling him in for a few more kisses before you let him stand up straight again. With a deep breath to try and gain your senses back, you asked, “Do you mind if I take a shower?”

“Please.” George gestured towards the bathroom, “Whatever you need.”

He took your arm to help you off the bed and onto your quivering legs and once you were steady, you thanked him softly and took yourself to the bathroom.

You closed the door behind you and steadied yourself at the vanity, holding yourself up on the luxury marble countertop and staring at your disheveled reflection in the backlit mirror. Despite the tangles of your hair and the tear streaks on your flushed cheeks and everything else that made you look entirely ruined, the sight made an honest smile come to your face. You were floating on air.

The glass shower steamed up quickly under the stream of hot water that cascaded over your body. While you stood in the shower, your limbs quivered with the aftershocks of your night, desperate for the soothing relief of the water that slowly but surely worked to ease them. Despite how nice the water felt, you washed quickly with an unspoken urgency to get back to George, almost as if having him out of your line of vision for too long would make him entirely disappear.

The storm was quiet by the time you emerged from the bathroom—or perhaps it had stopped earlier but you were too caught up to notice—and George was already in bed, the blankets pooled around his waist. His bare torso was on display in the dim warm light of the suite, his phone in hand and his expression flat as he typed away. He looked up when you came back into the room in only a towel. A faint smile came to his face.

“Nice shower?” he asked politely.

“Yeah, it was just what I needed.” you replied with a content sigh, shuffling over to your suitcase to fish out something to wear, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” he replied.

There was a brief moment of silence as you rifled through your suitcase to find a clean pair of underwear and a shirt. Usually, George was always one to find small talk easy, to fill the silence with something or another. Now, the lingering quiet made you a tad uneasy.

You stood and dropped your towel to start to dress. George’s eyes flicked to you over the top of his phone screen but then immediately looked back at it as if he didn’t want to be caught staring. Like he hadn’t fucked you to heaven and back only a few short minutes earlier.

You tried your hand at small talk of your own, “Sounds like the storm is over.”

“Mhm.” George responded, his tone noncommittal, from behind his phone.

You frowned at his uncharacteristically dull reply and finished getting into your panties and a t-shirt. Stalling for time, you gathered your clothes that had been strewn around the living area of the hotel suite earlier that evening and tucked them away in your suitcase. George didn’t speak.

Finally, unable to avoid it any longer, you made your way over to the bed and pulled back the covers to get in beside him. George’s face remained focused on his phone, his brows slightly drawn as his thumbs tapped a steady rhythm. From the quick glance you took at his phone screen, it looked like he was composing an email.

You spoke softly, hesitant to break the quiet tension hanging between you. “What are you doing?”

“Just some work.” he murmured, barely glancing your way.

“At 9pm on a Sunday?”

George sighed, locking his phone and setting it down on the bedside table. “Yeah,” he said, shifting slightly under the sheets to lay down beside you properly. “Booking a flight for tomorrow.”

You watched as he turned to face you, his eyes meeting yours, but there was something different—an almost wobegone look lingering behind his big blue eyes, as if he were wrestling with something he couldn’t quite put into words. Had something happened while you were in the shower?

Feeling a strange tightness in your chest, you swallowed and asked, trying to clear the suddenly suffocating silence, “Are you okay?”

For a moment, his gaze dropped, and his eyebrows knit together, his lips barely moving when he replied, “Yeah.”

But you weren’t convinced.

“Because you’ve gone weird and quiet on me,” you pressed, keeping your voice soft but steady.

He stared at you for a second or two before letting out a heavy sigh and he reached a hand up to rub at his eyes with thumb and forefinger. You turned onto your side to face him yourself, concern filling your heart as he struggled to find his words.

After a long silence, he finally spoke, his voice low, “I haven’t been…entirely honest with you.”

Your stomach twisted, a dull ache settling in your chest. You managed to murmur, “Okay…” as your mind raced, bracing yourself for whatever he was holding back.

You braced yourself, waiting for the revelation to land like a punch. He was married. He had a girlfriend. He had a kid. He was a criminal. A thousand possibilities crashed through your mind, each one more unsettling than the last, as you tried to unravel what could make him so nervous…what secret he’d been guarding since Paris. You’d always known he was reserved, almost elusive when it came to the finer details of his life. It made sense—after all, you were practically strangers. But the possibility that he’d been hiding something so big, something that clearly was having a serious effect on him, was unnerving.

George’s eyes lingered on you, uncertainty flickering in his gaze. He drew in a breath, as if steeling himself, and finally spoke, his voice almost a whisper. “I…haven’t exactly told you the whole truth about what I do.”

Your mind went back to the notebook you had found in his backpack when you were snooping earlier. The confusing phrases in colour coded ink, not to mention the gloves. Your brows knitted together, and you tried to read his face, searching for any sign of what he was hiding.

“Look,” he said finally, his voice heavy with reluctance. “The truth is…there’s a reason I’ve been traveling so much. Why I’ve been in Paris…Milan…”

“You said you travel for work.” you clarified when he faded out for a moment.

“Yes, that is true.” George relented, “It’s just…not normal work.”

You tilted your head slightly against the pillow, waiting, giving him the space to say what he needed to in the time he needed no matter how much you wished he would just spit it out. His eyes held yours, his gaze intense and searching, like he was hoping for something—understanding, maybe.

Finally, he spoke his truth in a gentle voice, a sense of vulnerability in his tone that was very out of character for the version of him that you thought you knew, “I’m a Formula 1 driver.”

His confession settled in the air around you. At first you were honestly relieved, knowing that all your crazy theories your mind was making up were thankfully false. The realization sunk in slowly, your gaze tracing the outline of his face as if seeing him for the first time, the guarded intensity in his eyes now made perfect sense.

You didn’t know much about the sport outside of the basic idea. The reality that one of the twenty best drivers in the world was sharing a bed with you felt a little unfathomable. But he was still the considerate—and charmingly cocky—gentleman you had met in that Paris bar, who had swept you off your feet in ways you never thought possible. He had always been so secretive since the night you met but, without him even having to explain, you instantly knew the reason why. If anything, it stemmed from your mental connection to the fact that his offer to pay the hotel double for this suite would have barely put a dent in his pocket.

The seconds that passed since he had confessed lingered heavily between you. A little caught up in your own mind, you suddenly realized you had to give some sort of response.

Before you could, George took your silence and kept filling it, “I know I should’ve told you before…back in Paris. But when I met you and you didn’t know me…I didn’t want to ruin it with NDAs or whatever else. I felt normal and I wanted to be just that. Just…George.”

You reached a hand out to set over his against the pillow between you, wrapping your fingers around his palm in a gentle squeeze, “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me that,” you said softly, holding his gaze. “I had no idea. I mean, I’ve heard of Formula 1 but I don’t really follow it myself.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly as he let out a sigh, a calm smile pricking at his lips, “I figured when you didn’t thrust your phone in my face for a selfie.”

Your playful rebuttal was easy, “I would have gone with an autograph book so I could sell it for top dollar.”

George genuinely laughed, his hand instinctively squeezing yours as you shared the lighthearted moment amidst all that heaviness. The banter always came so easily with him. You couldn’t help the way you smiled adoringly at him, not even realizing yourself that your eyes shone when watching the way he laughed.

A calm silence much more relaxed than the previous one lingered between you as his laughter faded, both of you taking a moment to process. His thumb brushed lazily over your knuckles on the pillow between you.

Then, with his voice barely above a whisper, he spoke again, “I didn’t want to lie to you anymore. Not after tonight, especially, when all of this feels almost…too good to be true.”

“You weren’t lying to me,” you murmured, your thumb tracing small circles over the warm skin of his hand. “You were protecting yourself, making sure I was here for the right reasons. And honestly, even now—knowing what you do—I still just see ‘George’. The same sweet-talking, impossibly handsome man who bought me a drink in that Paris bar a year ago. That part hasn’t changed. The fact that I’ve done nothing but think about you since then… that doesn’t change, either.”

A small smile softened his face, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of ease in his eyes, as though your words had lifted something heavy from him. He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your fingers as his long eyelashes fluttered shut for a moment, lingering there, the gesture as raw and real as his confession.

“We should talk.”

Your voice sounded almost foreign to you as you spoke those three simple words. George’s eyes opened slowly to find yours, his lips pulling away from your fingers tentatively as if anticipating what you were about to say.

“About this,” you continued in a whisper, almost afraid to say it out loud, “Paris, Milan…us. Are we doomed to the narrative of spending another year apart until we unexpectedly stumble into each other again in some other foreign city?”

George let out a small hum of acknowledgement, his lips brushing against your knuckles again, his eyes drifting to the sheets pensively. You gave him a moment to collect his thoughts, lingering on the feeling of his warm breath on the fair skin of the back of your hand.

His fingers tightened around yours ever so slightly as his gaze rose to yours once more. His voice was low and vulnerable as he admitted, “I don’t think I can let you walk away twice.”

Staring into his gorgeous aquamarine eyes in the warm, dim lighting of the hotel suite, you shivered at the sincerity you saw in his irises. From the protected and secretive man you met in Paris, he was dropping those walls for you to open up to the promises of what could be held between you after Milan.

“Then don’t.” you breathed.

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natsaffection · 8 months ago

Text

Mafias Mistress pt. 2 | N.R

MafiaBoss!Natasha x CivilianYounger!Reader

Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI! Age gap (Natasha is 32 = reader ist 22), kinda mean Nat, Daddy kink, BDSM, restraints, Begging, multiple orgasm, strap on (r receiving) rough sex, fingering (r receiving) poor Natty who doesn’t understand feelings 🤲🏼

Word Count: 3,7 K

A/N: Second part is here! More details about the relationship will appear in the next chapter + maybe Natasha’s secret will already be revealed, who knows🙌🏻🙌🏻

The air in the dimly lit room was thick with tension, a palpable sense of danger surrounding the two women seated at the mahogany table. Natasha Romanoff exuded an aura of power and mystery with her piercing green eyes and wavy red hair falling past her shoulders. She tapped her perfectly manicured nails on the polished surface, a subtle yet commanding gesture that spoke volumes about her authority.

Maria Hill, whose steely gaze and unwavering loyalty were etched into every line of her face, stood by Natasha's side like a watchful sentinel. Her clenched jaw and furrowed brow betrayed the gravity of the situation. As she began to update Natasha on the latest developments in the shadow world they navigated with practiced finesse, a sense of unease settled over the room like a heavy cloak.

Maria's voice was quiet and measured as she described the intricate web of alliances and betrayals that threatened to engulf her carefully built empire.

"Dreykov's men have invaded our territory, testing our defenses, trying to find a weak spot," Maria explained, her tone a mixture of concern and determination. Natasha leaned back in her chair, the soft leather creaking slightly under her weight, her eyes never leaving Maria's face.

The crackle of the fireplace in the corner sent flickering shadows dancing across the walls, adding an eerie undertone to the already tense atmosphere in the room. Natasha's fingers closed around the crystal glass of whiskey in front of her, the amber liquid swirling hypnotically as she considered Maria's words. Beneath her calm facade simmered a variety of conflicting emotions, a potent cocktail of concern, admiration, and a simmering undercurrent of defiance.

Natasha's mind was like a stormy sea, each wave crashing against the walls she had carefully built around herself. Maria watched her carefully, her sharp eyes noticing every slight change in Natasha's demeanor. The weight of unspoken words lay heavy between them, a silent understanding that went beyond mere words.

Natasha's gaze flickered from Maria's unwavering eyes to the crackling fireplace in the corner, as if seeking comfort in the dancing flames. The room seemed to shrink around them, suffocating in its intimacy, each breath taken with measured caution.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ Last Night ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The room was shrouded in shadow, the only source of light coming from the dimly lit bedside lamp. Natasha leaned back on the silk sheets, her gaze fixed on the woman in front of her, her expression a mixture of desire and dominance.

"Daddyyy.." whispered the woman who was Natasha's nightly attendant, her voice trembling with anticipation. Natasha's lips curved into a predatory smile as she beckoned the woman closer, her eyes dark with desire. "Come here," she commanded, her voice dripping with authority.

The woman obeyed, her movements careful as she approached Natasha, keenly aware of the power dynamics at play. Natasha's touch was possessive, her hands sliding over the woman's skin with a need that bordered on desperation.

In the heat of the moment, Natasha's mind wandered to forbidden fantasies, her desires leading her down a treacherous path. And then, in a moment of reckless abandon, she spoke a name that did not belong to the woman herself, but held power beyond imagination.

"Y/n.." Natasha murmured, her voice animated with desire as she lost herself in her fantasy.

The woman froze at the unfamiliar name, her heart skipping a beat as she tried to understand Natasha's slip of the tongue. "Y/n?" she began, her voice shaking with uncertainty. "Who is Y/n?"

Natasha's expression darkened, her features twisting with hurt as she realized her mistake. "What do you mean?" she snapped, her voice irritated.

The woman took a deep breath, bracing herself for what she was about to say. "The name..." she explained, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her. "You just said a different name, Y/n.."

Natasha's eyes narrowed at the mention of your name, her defenses instinctively rising to protect her fragile heart. "That name means nothing to me," she insisted, her voice cold and dismissive.

But the woman saw through Natasha's facade and recognized the pain and longing that lay beneath the surface. "Natasha, please," she pleaded, her voice laced with compassion. "I can see it in your eyes, feel it in the way you said her name. Who is she?"

Natasha's anger flared, her facade of control fading as she pushed the woman away with a forceful gesture. "Enough," she growled, her voice sharp with frustration. "You're here for my pleasure, nothing more, remember that."

The woman backed away at Natasha's sudden outburst, her heart sinking as she realized the futility of her efforts. "I-I know! But I might be able to help you with that..with her. Sounded like you were caring-"

But Natasha was beside herself with reason, her mind clouded by anger and fear. "Get out of here," she ordered, her voice icy and unforgiving. "I don't want to see you again."

The woman's heart shattered at Natasha's words, the pain of rejection cutting deeper than any physical wound. With one last sad look, she turned and fled the room, leaving Natasha alone in the darkness with her demons.

As the door closed behind her, Natasha was left with nothing but the echo of her own regret, the weight of her choices pressing down on her like a suffocating blanket. And in that moment of loneliness, she realized the true price of her pride and stubbornness.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ Now ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Maria cleared her throat, bracing herself for what she was about to say. "Our sources have confirmed that the rival cartel is taking steps to expand its territory," she began, her voice firm despite the tension in the room. "They are targeting our key distribution networks and..."

Natasha's mind wandered, a hint of annoyance crossing her face as memories of the past overshadowed her thoughts. Your face popped into her mind, an unwelcome reminder of a vulnerability she had long buried.

"Natasha?" Maria's voice broke through the fog, jolting Natasha back to the present.

Natasha's jaw clenched as she forced herself to focus, pushing aside the unwelcome memories that threatened to consume her. "Continue," she commanded, her voice clipped and dismissive.

Maria hesitated for a moment, narrowing her eyes in concern as Natasha's sudden change in demeanor irritated her. "Is everything okay?" she asked in a worried voice.

Natasha's mask fell, revealing the turmoil raging within her. "Everything is fine," she replied curtly, her kindness betraying her inner turmoil.

But Maria was not so easily fooled, her instincts honed by years of loyalty and service to Natasha. "You seem distracted," she remarked in a soft yet searching voice. "Do you have something on your mind?"

Natasha bristled at the suggestion, her defenses ramping up to protect her wounded pride. "I don't have time for distractions," she snapped, her voice sounding frustrated. Maria stood firm, unfazed by Natasha's outburst. "With all due respect, Natasha, this is important," she insisted, her gaze unwavering as she met Natasha's eyes. "We must be prepared for whatever comes our way."

Natasha's resolve wavered, her anger melting away in the face of Maria's unwavering loyalty. "I know," she admitted, her voice softening a little. "I...I just have a lot on my mind."

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

As she entered the room, Natasha's eyes immediately fell on the ropes and shackles hanging from the ceiling. She felt the familiar stirrings of power and control, her body already humming with anticipation. When she turned to face you, she could see the young woman's wide eyes and slight trepidation mixed with excitement in her gaze.

"Take off your clothes," Natasha instructed. "And then kneel on the floor, hands behind your back."

You obeyed, your heart beating faster as you removed your clothes, revealing your delicate, slender figure. As you assumed the kneeling position, Natasha stepped behind you and gently ran her fingers through your hair.

"Good girl," she purred, feeling a wave of satisfaction as you shivered under her touch. This has been going on for several weeks now. Natasha was desperate and called you. But her being desperate for you is another story.

Natasha walked over to the table laden with ropes, restraints, and other toys. She chose a piece of soft, supple rope and approached you with it. "Arms up," she ordered. "I'm going to tie you up." You obeyed, raising your arms above your head as Natasha began wrapping the rope around your wrists.

The rough texture of the rope brushed against your sensitive skin, sending tingles down your spine. You closed your eyes and let out a soft sigh as Natasha pulled the ropes tight and straightened your arms.

Now that you were securely bound, Natasha walked to the front of the room where an intricate set of leather restraints hung from the ceiling. She attached the restraints to your wrists, pulled you up, and secured you to the ceiling hooks.

Your body was now spread out, vulnerable and exposed to Natasha. Natasha stood before you, taking a moment to admire her work. She ran her fingers over the curve of your chest, tracing a line across your stomach, pausing just above your aching sex.

"You look so fucking beautiful," she murmured, her voice hoarse with excitement. Your breath caught, your body trembled as Natasha slowly began to lunge at you. You could feel the heat of Natasha's breath on your skin, causing goosebumps. With a mischievous glint in her eyes, Natasha picked up a whip from the nearby table and gently ran it along your thighs.

The leather strands caressed your skin, burning gently with each smack. You moaned softly, your body's reaction betraying you. You craved more, wanted Natasha to test your limits and bring you to the brink of pleasure and pain.

And as if she could read your mind, Natasha flicked the whip harder, sending a shockwave of pain and pleasure through your body.

"Please..," you begged, your voice tight with desire.

Natasha knew what you wanted, so she’s smacking your breasts and stomach with the whip, leaving a satisfying red mark on your skin. Your moans grew louder, your body arching in pleasure and pain.

Natasha enjoyed the power and control she had over you, her own desire growing with each lash of the whip. She dropped the whip and moved closer to you. She ran her fingers over your wetness, eliciting a sharp gasp from you.

"You like that, don't you?" Natasha teased, pressing her fingers deeper into your core. You nodded and bit your lower lip as Natasha began to stroke your clit in slow, deliberate circles.

Natasha's touch was incredibly skillful, bringing you closer to the edge with each movement of her fingers. "Beg for it," Natasha growled, nipping at your ear with her teeth. "Beg for me to make you come."

"Please," you gasped, your body burning with desire. "Please let me come. I need it. I need you..“ Natasha giggled darkly, continuing her relentless assault on your sensitive flesh.

You writhed and moaned beneath her, your body begging for release. Natasha's own need rose, her arousal unmistakable as she ran her fingers over your clit.

She plunged her fingers deep inside you, feeling your muscles tighten around them as she began to thrust harder and faster. "Oh, fuck, yes.." you gasped, the pressure inside you rising to unbearable levels.

Your hips rose, seeking more friction, more pleasure. Natasha did not disappoint, her fingers moving in a fast and steady rhythm that matched your pace. Your breathing quickened, your heart pounding in your chest. You felt the familiar tingling before the surge of pleasure, the blinding light that was your release.

"Cum for me," Natasha demanded with a low growl. With one final thrust of Natasha's fingers, you break, gasping and moaning as you come violently against her.

Natasha held you there, prolonging the ecstasy as you shuddered and trembled. As you came down from your high, Natasha slowly pulled her fingers from your wetness, bringing them to her own lips and sucking them clean.

"You taste so fucking good," she said, her eyes shining with lust. You couldn't help but blush and squirm as Natasha continued to lick and tease her fingers. "You're so fucking wet and ready for me."

Natasha wrapped her arms around your shoulders, her mouth finding yours in a new wave of passion. You could feel Natasha's hands sliding down your body, grabbing your ass and kneading your flesh.

"I want to feel you i-inside me," you whisper, gasping for air. Natasha didn't need to be asked twice, she was already hungry for your taste. She lifted your legs up and wrapped them around her waist, going deeper into you with each thrust. The room was filled with the sounds of their skin slapping against each other, their moans and groans of pleasure, punctuated by the occasional curse word. It was raw and primal, and both of you reveled in it.

Your body trembled beneath Natasha's as you gave yourself over to the experience. You could feel every inch of Natasha's fake cock inside you, filling you and stretching you to the edge of pain. But you wanted more. You wanted to feel everything Natasha had to offer.

"Beg me to thrust harder," she gasps, your fingers digging into Natasha's back. "Please...fuck me harder...!"

Natasha's fingers dug into your hips, holding you tight as she thrust into you with an intensity that took both of your breath away. "Yebat (fuck), you feel so good," Natasha murmured, her breath warm against your neck.

Your nails dug into Natasha's back, leaving red welts. You were lost in the haze of pleasure, her mind blank except for the rush of sensations coursing through your body.

Natasha's thrusts became wilder and her breath came in ragged gasps. Your own orgasm was already building inside you, each pounding thrust pulling you closer to the edge.

"Fuck, I'm coming," Natasha growled, her clit rubbing against yours with each movement. Your response was only a soft whimper, your muscles tightening around Natasha as the first wave of your orgasm washed over you.

Natasha's thrusts became more erratic, her body stiffening as she followed you over the edge."Oh, fuck!" Natasha gasped, her fingers digging into your hips. "Yes, yes, yes!"

Your orgasm continued to rip through you, leaving you shaking and gasping. Natasha's body fell against of yours, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she gasped for air.

Slowly, Natasha pulled out of your body, freeing you from your bonds. She’s bringing you over to her bed, your legs trembled, still caught in the aftershocks of your orgasm. Natasha wrapped her arms around your waist, holding you close and kissing you deeply.

"You were incredible," Natasha murmured, tracing patterns on your stomach with her fingers. You smiled exhaustedly, your heart still racing. "That was... incredible."

Your vision blurred, every muscle in your body frozen in a wonderfully wild tableau. Natasha pulled you close, their sweat-soaked bodies entwined as they fought to catch their breath. Their mutual satisfaction hung thick and heavy in the air.

Your breaths mingled as you stared at each other, eyes glazed with contented exhaustion. Your heavy breaths formed a synchronized rhythm as you embraced in the dim light, skin flushed and chest heaving. Exhausted and exhilarated, you lay in her arms, still and calm, letting the lulling drum of their synchronized heartbeats sing you to sleep.

As the fog of post-orgasmic pleasure dissipated, tenderness stirred within Natasha, wrapping her heart in an unfamiliar warmth. It was a feeling that reached beyond the boundaries of physical pleasure and crept behind the heavy curtains that normally concealed her feelings.

In those fleeting moments, she wanted nothing more than to surrender to the dreamy cloud of affection that swirled around her. Yet she resisted, clinging grimly to the remnants of her past.

Natasha could barely comprehend the confusing feelings that left her speechless. She had always believed that she was incapable of such vulnerability. You shifted your weight and pressed your cheek against Natasha's chest. Your eyelids were heavy with the impending sleep.

Despite the inner turmoil, Natasha felt her heart swell at the sight. She put an arm protectively around you and traced lazy patterns on your back. Her fingertips left a fiery trail on the skin beneath.

Natasha's heartbeat lulled you into a peaceful sleep, your dreams carrying you to a land free from the burden of reality. Natasha's defenses dropped and the irresistible lure of exploring deeper emotional terrain seduced her.

It was a foreign path, one she had never allowed herself to tread. And yet here she was, rowing the swaying boat through choppy waters, only partially certain of her destination.

She shifted you gently in her arms, maneuvering you so that they were lying side by side on the plush crimson velvet. The dim lights danced on their entwined bodies as you touched, sweet memories of the forbidden fruit they had just enjoyed.

Their limbs intertwined effortlessly and the wry smiles they shared conveyed a wealth of unspoken intimacy. The room was filled with the soft glow of moonlight, casting a halo around your sleeping form as you lay nestled against Natasha's side.

As Natasha's racing heartbeat gradually slowed to a steady rhythm, she lost herself in the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the rhythmic sound like a soothing lullaby. And in that quiet moment of intimacy, as your warmth seeped into her skin, Natasha felt something stir inside her - a stirring of feelings she had long denied.

With shaking hands, Natasha brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead, her touch gentle and reverent. And as she looked at the sleeping figure beside her, bathed in the soft light of the moon, Natasha felt a wave of longing wash over her - a longing for more than fleeting passion and desire.

In that moment of vulnerability, Natasha's walls crumbled, her defenses laid bare before the only person who had managed to break through her cover.

With a soft exhale, she whispered the words she hadn't dared admit for a long time, not even to herself. "I think I'm falling in love with you," Natasha confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. And as the words hung in the air between them, she knew there was no turning back.

🏷️ TAGLIST:

@new-Lee-marvel-fan-blog @taliiiaasteria @kipitou @queen2234 @sgm616 @dorabledewdroop @natsxwife @natashaswife4125 @loneliestafterparty @jenniferjareauwife @maggieromanov @doveromanoff

#natasha x reader #natasha smut #natasha romanoff #dom!natasha x reader #natasha romanov x reader #nat x reader #natasha romanov smut #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha

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monstrousvoice · 8 months ago

Text

Bedtime

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Relationship: Husk X Reader

AN: Inspired by this post, I wanted to write Husk being sleepy and needing to be picked up from the hotel's bar. Fluffy and sweet! Reader’s gender isnt specified but you do use a couple of sappy, schmaltzy nicknames for Husk, fair warning

Tags: Fluff, References to Alcohol, References to Alcohol Addiction, Sappy Romantic Nicknames, Other Cast Members Mentioned, If I missed any please let me know

Summary: The Hazbin Hotel is pretty peaceful at night.

Read on AO3!

With a huff of frustration you sat up in bed, scrubbing your hands over your face. Your hands dropped to your lap as your eyes wandered the empty bedroom. The lamp light was still on, casting an amber glow over everything from the empty booze bottles still on the shelves you haven't thrown out, to the mounds of dirty clothes neither you nor your boyfriend had bothered to pick up. The clock read midnight. You look to your side, his half of the bed still empty. Still cold.

That was why you were having such trouble sleeping, you knew. You needed your nightly cuddles if you were ever going to fall asleep.

Sighing and stretching your shoulders, you stood up, making yourself look somewhat decent before you left your room. Despite the late hour you knew better than to walk through the hallways without pants on.

It was…surreal to walk through the hotel at night. When you had lived in the center of the Ring, there was always noise, always chaos. There were times you were so scared of being a target for a robbery (or something worse) that you couldn't sleep at all, only closing your eyes for a few minutes before jolting awake at the sound of a car crash and gunfire outside your window.

…But here there was nothing. Night was almost peaceful. If you really strained your hearing or went outside the distant chaos would be noticeable, but walking through red and gold hallways, the only real noise came from your fellow residents.

Sometimes you would come across Nifty scurrying around, dusting and bug hunting and muttering to herself. Sometimes Angel would get back from work in a good mood because Valentino had been in a good mood, and you could hear his favorite music playing from his room as he sang along, spinning Fat Nuggets around and around.

Even when you suspected he was sleeping, the soft sound of jazz and radio static never stopped playing from Alastor's room. You were grateful he was on one of the top floors and far from your room. You don't think your beau would be able to sleep at all knowing his Master was right down the hall.

Sir Pentious could make quite a racket when he was in a tinkering mood, but he always spent his time doing so in the hotel’s workshop and, to give him credit, he tried working on quieter projects during the night after Charlie asked him to keep it down once. Charlie herself, and Vaggie, were both pretty quiet too. The only time you could think of them making too much noise at night was one instance. They had decided to have date night at the hotel watching movies, which led to a tickle fight that had Charlie screeching in joy and sent the rest of you on red alert that she was under attack.

Both her and Vaggie had apologized out of breath and with red cheeks.

You didn't come across anyone tonight as you made your way to the lobby. The tv was off, throw blankets neatly folded on the couch. Some bits of metal and electronics were left on the coffee table, you assumed it was a project Sir Pentious had been working on before calling it a night.

You kept walking, your destination being the bar.

It was neat and tidy as always…except for the unconscious bartender laying across it. You smiled softly as you crept closer, and the sound of soft snoring reached your ears. Husk was dead asleep on his side of the bar, his back slowly rising and falling with even breaths, wings limp and touching the floor. His head was laying on his folded arms, hands still gripping a clean empty glass and a rag.

You hadn't mentioned it to him yet, but you were proud of him. Lately he had been opening up more to the others in the hotel, making actual friends, you dared to call them. And with that change came a change in Husk. He was smiling more, even laughing, and drinking less. It made your heart warm and gooey that he was learning to let his walls down around others besides you.

He was happier.

He wasn't gonna be happy in the morning with a sore neck and pins and needles in his legs for sleeping standing up, however.

You snuck up behind the counter, stepping over his limp tail to get closer to his warmth. With delicate precision you pulled the empty glass and rag out from his claws and set them aside. You slowly wrapped your arms around him next, mindful of his sensitive wings, carding your fingers through the fur covering his arms and shoulders. You leaned close to his flicking ear and whispered.

“Husk? It's time to get up baby…you need to get to bed.” A snort and a twitch of whiskers was your only response. “C'mon, wake up handsome~” you cooed again.

A grunt, and suddenly a golden eye was fluttering open looking around but not really taking anything in. Husk coughed, slowly pulling himself upright and smacking his lips together with a frown. You could guess his last drink was making itself known to his taste buds.

“Fuckin-Wh…where…?” He looked groggy, eyes fuzzy with wide pupils, and the fur on his cheek he had been laying on was clumped together in the cutest case of bed head you've ever seen. (Who were you kidding, every morning waking up next to him was the cutest case of bed head ever-) He gave a loud groan as he stood up, leaning forward hard onto the countertop as his legs and feet woke back up.

“Shiiit…fuckin feet, goddam-...” He muttered and cursed some more, and you wrapped your arms around his middle to help hold him up. Even in his dazed state he tried to return the affection you were giving him, one of his hands moving to cover yours where it gripped him. His tail swished and curled around your legs as he woke up.

“Did you have one too many with Angel again sweetheart? I had asked him to let me know the next time you fell asleep here…” Your brows furrowed in concern. You couldn't really be mad at Angel if he forgot though. When he and Husk drank, they got sloshed.

“N-no…not Angel.” Husk muttered. His baritone voice was deeper than usual, sleep making it sound gravely and…well, husky. He dragged the hand not holding yours down his face, scrubbing and wrinkling his muzzle to wake up more. His mouth opened wide in a yawn, one that granted you a chance to see the rows of fangs he had hidden away in their full glory. You noticed tears pricking the corner of his eyes as the yawn ended and he licked his dry lips.

“...Was Alastor. Wanted some drinks, and when he finally left, I had his mess to clean up.” Your heart ached in sympathy. You know how much a night spent with just Alastor rubbed your man the wrong way. And the worst part was…

You couldn't do anything.

But you could do this for him. You pressed a kiss to his cheek before nuzzling into his neck, taking a deep inhale of his smell. You spoke again, voice muffled by his fur, but with the way his ear cocked towards you, you knew he could understand.

“-’M sorry baby. Com's t’ bed? It's com’y…” He chuckled at your muffled words, turning in your arms to hug you back. Face to face, he was able to nuzzle his own face into your neck this time. Husk took a deep breath and held it for a moment, relishing your scent before breathing hot air against you. It tickled.

“Yeah…yeah ‘m ready for bed…” He mumbled. Despite this you both stood there a moment longer. His arms were so firm and strong where they rested on your hips, and you loved the way his shoulders and back were so easy for you to hold onto. You simply didn't want to move yet. He smelled like booze, of course, but underneath that was the smell of his cheap cologne and his natural scent, and you let it envelope you entirely. Sleepy or not, you could stand here with him for eternity…

But, you figured his feet were probably killing him at this point, and you'd rather you both be comfortable during cuddle time. So, with a sigh you pulled away, but not before giving his other cheek a kiss to match the earlier one. Husk simply smiled at you, eyes hooded and soft with love.

As you both turned to make your way up the stairs to your shared bedroom, neither of you let go of the other. His arm stayed firmly on your hip, keeping you pulled as close to him as possible without tripping you both. You couldn't complain, you were doing the same thing, holding him to your side to support his tired body. His wings still drooped with their weight, the tips of his feathers touching the floor as you walked.

It was a quick walk back to your shared room, kisses and ‘I love you’s being whispered as you went. You didn't even care about the taste of stale booze in his mouth when you kissed him anymore. You had come to love it in a weird, pavlovian sort of way.

When you finally got back, you shut the door behind you with a soft ‘click’, and Husk stayed glued to your side as you did so. Already his eyes were slipping closed again, and the sight had you cooing in adoration.

“You are so adorable you know that? Such a handsome face, looking so sleepy…” He pouted at your words, but the blush on his face was obvious despite his fur.

“Shut that cute mouth up before I shut it myself-” He grumbled.

“Oh? And how would you shut it, hmm? I'm oh-so curious!” You teased him further, and giggled loudly when his response was to bury his face into your chest to hide away.

“-’m too tired for this-” He whined, actually whined, and you relented.

“Okay, okay sweetheart. I'm done, let's go to bed, yeah?” At his tired nod you stumbled your way to the bed, almost tripping on a pile of clothes in the way. When you finally reached the edge of the mattress, Husk finally let you go. He all but dragged himself across the blankets before flopping down on his side, only taking enough time to make sure his wings were tucked away safely and wouldn't get crushed. You stood still, smiling down at him.

“Not even gonna take off your pants big boy?” Your response was a tired huff. Husk laid with his face buried in a pillow, your pillow to be exact, and watched you with one sleepy eye. He held up his arms and made a grabbing motion towards you.

“C’mere doll…wanna hold you…” And if that sight didn't break your heart, nothing could.

“Hold on, let me get you situated.” Husk groaned in protest but didn't stop you as you crawled over the bed and to him. With practiced movements you undid his suspenders and popped open his pants, wiggling his clothes off him. In nothing left but his boxers, you tossed your blanket over him and finally settled down at his side.

Immediately he snuggled into you, pulling himself as close as possible to your body heat and curling himself around you like a leech. His legs wrapped around your hips and thighs, arms around your back as he buried his face into your chest.

He was asleep in moments.

Unable to stop smiling, you brushed your fingers through his fur and settled down yourself, finally feeling the sweet embrace of sleep now that your cuddly man was where he belonged.

#Hazbin Hotel #Hazbin Hotel X Reader #Hazbin Hotel Husk #Hazbin Hotel Husk X Reader #Husk X Reader #man its been awhile since I posted anything here and on AO3 #hope yall like it #My Writing

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mischievouslittlecreature · 29 days ago

Text

Part 21: The Shadow of the Abattoir

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x OC

Summary: Lucy begins the long recovery from what Luca did to her, while the Shelbys prepare for Bonnie's boxing match.

Word Count: 5,254

Notes: Warnings for depictions of PTSD, injuries, chronic pain, and references to torture.

Previous Chapter • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Chapter 26: Lost Forever

Audrey entered Luca’s room to find it in complete disarray. The papers that he kept spread across his desk were all over the floor, chairs and tables overturned in the sitting room, a lamp smashed on the thin rug, along with the shattered remains of crystal glasses and a decanter filled with amber liquid.

Her eyes swept over the scene of destruction, lips pursing.

When Matteo came to her lodgings, eyes wide and begging her to please come at once, she had almost sent him away. She probably would have, had it been anyone else asking for her help. She was the matriarch of the Changretta family, and she answered the summons of no one.

“Luca,” she said, stepping deeper into the room, towards where he was seated on the couch, staring straight ahead, gnawing so hard on the toothpick wedged between his teeth that she thought he might splinter it in half. Glass crunched under her heels.

She lowered herself into the seat beside him, keeping her back straight, watching her son scrutinizingly.

“What happened?”

He didn’t answer her, and Audrey bristled.

“When your mother asks a question, you answer it, Luca.”

“She got away,” he growled, eyes still staring straight ahead. “She fucking got away.”

“Who?”

“The Red Demon. Lucy Winters.”

Audrey felt her stomach fall into her toes, though she did not let it show on her face. “How?”

Luca shook his head. “Shelby found her, we think. The fucking gardener was found this morning, laid out on the doorstep of one of our old businesses, with his throat cut and his eyes torn out.”

“The gardener talked? But I thought you had men protecting him…”

“Yeah. Two men who we can’t locate. They were last seen at a pub with Smith. They were probably drunk when the Peakys arrived. Didn’t stand a fucking chance. Not that anyone who was at the pub that night will tell us anything.”

Audrey cursed in Italian under her breath. “But you left guards with Winters.”

“They’re all dead.”

“All of them?”

“Yes. Shelby must have killed them all.”

“Or she did.”

Luca finally looked at her. “She was barely able to stay conscious when I left her. She’s cut up and beaten within an inch of her life. There’s no way that she–”

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop underestimating her before you listen to me!?” With a sharp, controlled movement, she cuffed him around the back of the head like she used to when he was small. “If any of your men gave her so much as a sliver of an opportunity, I promise you that she took it.”

“And killed all of them?”

She looked around the room, a casualty of Luca’s wrath undoubtedly after he learned the news of Winters’s escape. Her mind wound back to when Lucy Winters first arrived in Small Heath. The stories that had soon began to follow her. “She’s done it before.” She turned her gaze back onto her son. “You should have just killed her when you had the chance.”

“We’ll get her back.”

“No, you won’t. Thomas isn’t going to let her out of his sight now.” Frustration mounted in her veins, making itself known through a venomous look thrown Luca’s way, shaking her head. “You had the opportunity of a lifetime. You had her in your clutches. Do you understand how profound of an effect her death would have had on Thomas? They say he went half mad with grief over his wife’s death. What do you think killing Winters would have done to him? It would have crippled him. Or we could have used her as a bargaining tool. Or bait. Something.” She stood, towering over him, her disappointment mounting with every passing moment. How could he have been so stupid!? “And you just wanted to play out some silly little revenge fantasy. Instead of actually using your victory to your advantage. Your father and I taught you better than that.”

“Isn’t that what this all is? Revenge, mother? I was paying her back for all the pain she’s caused. She was there when they tortured my father. She’s already killed more than a handful of our men. She deserved to know what it felt like. Besides, she’s not going to be much use to Shelby at all with how badly injured she is.”

Audrey shook her head. No use. He really thought that the woman who likely kept Thomas Shelby standing upright with her mere presence was of no use to him. “You have not listened to a single word that I’ve said, have you?”

Luca looked up at her, hurt cracking across his eyes. “I’ve done everything that you’ve told me to do.”

Head shaking back and forth, she went to the door.

“There’s the boxing match next week. We’ll strike a blow, then,” Luca called after her.

“Better pray it’s a big one, then. Because you’re running out of time.”

∗ ∗ ∗

Lizzie pushed the door to the bedroom open with her fingertips, peering in to find Lucy asleep, curled on her side in bed, a quilt pulled up over her chest, bandages wrapped around what looked to be most of her body. Tommy was hunched over in a chair at her bedside, Lucy’s hand in his. Ada was standing next to him, her hand on his shoulder while she looked down at Lucy’s sleeping figure.

“How is she?” she asked. Tommy cleared his throat, wetting his lips.

“Her back is…shredded. He whipped her,” Lizzie saw his hand tighten where it rested against his knee. “He reopened all her scars from…” he paused as if unable to bring himself to actually say it out loud, “from what happened to her in London before she came to us.”

“Jesus,” Ada breathed, a hand going to her lips.

“She took a bullet to her shoulder. I removed it. Cleaned and stitched her up. Gave her something for the pain and to help her sleep.” He rubbed a hand down his face. “She said that he bound her from the ceiling so that she was dangling with her arms above her head for days. I don’t…” he had to pause to get his voice under control. Ada rested a hand on his upper arm while he bowed his head. “I don’t know what kind of permanent damage that might’ve done.”

“But she’s alive.”

“Yes,” he agreed, though there was something in his voice that seemed to indicate that he wasn’t wholly confident in that statement.

“I’ll take Charlie for a few nights. He shouldn’t see her like this.”

“Thank you.”

“And Polly and Arthur will deal with everything else for the time being. You don’t need to worry about it. There’s still Bonnie’s boxing match with Alfie’s boy, but…”

“Someone needs to call Alfie and tell him we found her.”

“Already done. He said to tell you that he’ll deal with the last few arrangements that need to be made for the fight.”

“Right.”

“Doctor Evans will be here within an hour.”

“Good.” Lizzie wondered if the doctor was going to be in for a good scolding for not coming right as soon as he was called.

There was the clack of nails against the hardwood floor in the hallway, and then Asher was squeezing around Lizzie’s legs, nosing open the slightly ajar door to wander into the bedroom. Bypassing both Tommy and Ada, he raised his head to sniff at Lucy’s face. His tail drooped, ears falling downwards as a small whine left his throat. Tommy reached out to stroke the dog’s back.

“I know, boy. I know. She’s okay.”

Asher looked back at him, then to Lucy, whining again. Tommy drew him away gently.

“Let her sleep, Ash.”

The black shepherd let out another soft whine, laying down next to the bed with his head on his paws, his dark brown eyes fixed dutifully on Lucy, watching over her protectively.

“Do you need anything else?” Ada asked, hand smoothing up and down Tommy’s back.

“No.”

“Call me if you do. I’ll gather up Charlie and head home. I think Polly was planning on sleeping over in one of the spare rooms.” She stood.

“Ada,” he called, mindful to still keep his voice quiet enough that he would not wake Lucy. She turned back to him. “Thank you.”

She gave him a tiny small and a quick nod, before going to the door. Her grave gaze met Lizzie’s, reaching out only to give her a squeeze to the arm before heading to the stairs, leaving her standing in the doorway alone.

Hands ringing together, Lizzie turned back to the bedroom, taking a cautious step forward into the room.

“Tommy?”

He started at the sound of her voice, head raising. His eyes looked red rimmed and tired. “What?”

She ignored the bite of hurt at his sharp tone, reminding herself that he’d had more than a trying couple of days. “I’m going to go home.”

His gaze sharpened. “Luca knows where you live.”

“I know, but I don’t think he’ll come after me right now. And…” she looked at his hand still clasped tightly in Lucy’s. Her heart twisted and fractured in her chest. “I can’t stay here.” I can’t watch you love someone else.

Tommy’s eyes searched hers, and she swore that she saw a spark of guilt as he read what was likely obvious in her gaze. “Does your house have a spare room?”

Her annoyance flared. “You’d know if you actually came to visit.”

Tommy looked away, jaw tightening. She took a deep breath.

“Yes, it does.” Her voice was softer.

“Skudboat will be sleeping there until the vendetta is over. And I’ll have multiple armed guards watching the house at all times. Isiah will be re-vetting all of your staff too, before they come back to work.”

“Fine.”

“All right, then.”

That was clearly her cue to leave, but she hesitated, gaze shifting to the tiny figure curled up on the bed. “Is she going to be okay?” she asked, voice hardly a whisper. Tommy’s shoulders heaved, and for a second she thought that he wouldn’t answer.

“No. No, she won’t.” His voice was low and mournful, as if she had died and was gone forever rather than asleep right in front of him. A shiver went down Lizzie’s spine, looking in slight alarm at the woman who’d caused her so much emotional turmoil.

Three days of brutal torture. That was enough to leave anyone scarred in and out for life. She wondered in what ways Lucy would be changed after this.

Chilled by the thought, Lizzie quickly made for the door.

∗ ∗ ∗

“Lucy.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting on the mattress on either side of her, eyes staring blankly at a spot on the floor. Tommy pushed the bedroom door closed with a click behind Doctor Evans, leaving Polly to escort him out while he came to sit down beside her.

“Sweetheart?”

A choked off sob left her lips, hand flying to her mouth a second too late to try to contain it.

“Hey,” he wrapped his arm around her carefully, pulling her into his side. “It’s okay.”

She shook her head furiously from side to side, turning her face to bury in his shoulder.

“It’s gonna be okay, baby. Doctor Evans said that all those cuts will heal…”

Yes, to leave disgusting, raised scars in their wake.

But that wasn’t even what was really bothering her.

“My-my shoulders…” she managed to whimper out, and she felt Tommy tense a little against her.

“He said with time and the right exercises, you might be able to minimize the long-term damage done to them…”

She shook her head. She’d seen the look in Doctor Evans’s eyes, same as he had. That much time spent with her arms positioned over her head, with her entire body weight dangling from them, had likely done catastrophic damage to the nerves. And yes, he may have given her a set of exercises and stretches to do once the inflammation went down and her cuts healed enough that she wouldn’t risk reopening them, but she had seen it in his face. It would never be the same again. Her range of motion in them would be permanently impacted, and she’d likely have pains in them for the remainder of her life.

“I can’t…I might not be able to…” Why couldn’t she just get the bloody words out? Was she really so useless now that she couldn’t even speak? “What use am I to you now?” she forced herself to ask in a hoarse whisper. Tommy’s eyes widened, scooting closer to her.

“What do you mean?”

Her mind tumbled over itself with all the potential implications that her injuries could have. “What if I can’t fight anymore? Or the pain gets so bad I can barely function? What if I can’t do my job? Or…or…or…” her chest started to spasm, cinching hard and closing off her ability to speak, sobs and harsh gasps rattling in her lungs.

“Lucy, Lucy, Lucy…” Tommy gathered her up in her arms, pulling her in close to his chest. “Shh,” he started to rock her from side to side, hand cradling the back of her skull protectively. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.” There was so much confidence in his voice that she was in danger of actually believing him. “I’ll take care of you. If you need physical accommodations for anything, we’ll sort them out, all right?”

“But–”

“Love, you’re useful for far more than just swinging fists.” Tommy tried to reassure, leaning back to smooth away her tears with his thumbs, cradling her face in his big palms. “Don’t worry about any of that right now. There’s nothing that could ever make me toss you aside, okay?” His lips brushed against her forehead. “All you need to focus on is healing and resting, eh?”

She swallowed, nodding shakily, taking a deep breath to try to steady herself. Gaze fixing with Tommy’s, she let the deep blue of his eyes ground her, reminding her that she was safe and looked after. Tommy gave her a small, reassuring smile.

“Good girl. C’mere.” He guided her gently into laying back down on the bed on her side, and she felt a pulse of fondness at the way he immediately began fussing over her. Fluffing her pillow and pulling the blankets up to her chin. “What do you need? Are you hungry? I think Ada or Polly made soup, if you want some.” He stood at her bedside, ready to jump at any request she might give him.

“Could you just come lay with me for a bit?”

His eyes softened, nodding and climbing in under the blankets next to her. He rested his arm lightly around her waist, taking care not to touch her back or jostle her bandages.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped, cheeks warming at her little meltdown and how frantic and irrational she probably had seemed.

“Oh, sweetheart, no. You don’t have to apologize for anything.”

Resting her hand on his forearm, Lucy rubbed her thumb back and forth against the soft material of his undershirt. He had changed into just a white Henley identical to the one he gave her to pull over her bandages, and a pair of trousers.

“I’m so sorry that I didn’t find you sooner,” he said, thumb stroking her cheekbone.

She shook her head. “I know that you did the best you could.” Adjusting herself, she stifled a wince at accidentally placing too much pressure on her bruised ribs. There wasn’t really any part of her that she could lay on without any discomfort, but being on her side was significantly better than being on her back. “How did you find me?”

“Our boys found Lizzie’s gardener who sold you out. His name was Paul Smith. Xavier Smith’s father. You remember Xavier Smith, right?”

Ah, that explained why the old man gave her up, then. “Yes.”

“I got him to talk.”

“How?”

He looked down. She inched her face closer to his in encouragement, until their noses almost brushed.

“I pulled out both his eyes.” The way that he looked at her suggested that he expected her to recoil in horror, but she did no such thing, hardly even blinking at the revelation.

“Is he still alive?”

A tiny, half sheepish smile crossed Tommy’s lips. “No. Not unless he can live with his head nearly sawed off.”

“You did that for me?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Of course,” Tommy said, as if there had never been any question in his mind that he would. “I had to find you.”

She put her head on his chest, weak arms looping around his middle. He rested his palms on her gingerly, careful not to pull at her bandages when he held her.

“Try to get some more rest.”

“When’s the fight between Bonnie and Goliath?”

“In a week.”

“I want to come.”

He drew back to look at her worriedly. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to overdo it.”

“I’m sure. I…” biting her lip, she glanced towards the window, then back at him. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

He looked her up and down. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” she put her head on his chest, blinking slowly as exhaustion took hold of her once more. Tommy’s hand continued to pet at her hair.

“Get some sleep, love. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

And he was, when she woke but only a few short hours later, screaming.

Her brain was fogged over with panic, hands scratching and scrabbling, legs kicking to try to fight off the monsters that moments ago she had been certain were surrounding her.

“Lucy! Lucy!”

Her eyes darted around the room madly, searching for any signs of Luca looming in the dark corners, wicked grin pulling at the corners of his lips as he prepared to elicit more pain onto her.

“It’s okay. You’re safe.”

A hand rested lightly on her shoulder, and she thrashed violently, crying out, swatting with flailing hands.

“Get off of me!” she screamed, trying to scramble away. He was here. He was here and he was going to hurt her again unless she managed to get away…

“Lucy.” Two strong arms wrapped around her waist, pinning her arms to her sides, keeping her from rolling away. She tried to kick out, one foot colliding hard with the wall to her left with a bang. “It’s me. It’s me. Come here. Come here.”

Her breaths were coming out in fast, frantic little bursts, eyes bulging in their sockets.

“Deep breaths,” the voice behind her commanded, and she felt a stockily built chest rise as its owner’s lungs filled with oxygen, then slowly lower as he let the breath out. “Match my breathing, come on.”

Her mind finally managed to catch up with what was going on around her, or at least enough that she was able to recognize that the voice rumbling her ear very much was not the hissing murmur that belonged to Luca Changretta.

Her lungs stuttered, then almost unconsciously started to match the deep rise and falls of Tommy’s chest against her.

“That’s my girl,” he said, at her growing still. “Do you see the pictures on the wall?”

She had to squint to make them out in the darkness, but across from the bed she found the painting of a horse standing in a forest, the leaves changing colors with the seasons and fluttering to the grass that the mare was grazing upon in a layer of reds, oranges, and yellows.

Tommy’s cheek was resting against hers, his breath warm against her ear. She could feel the rumble of his voice in his chest when he spoke again.

“The items on the nightstand?”

Her gaze cast over. To the little lamp. A half filled glass of whiskey. An ashtray dusted with black ash, with too many cigarette butts to count smashed in its center.

“Uh huh.”

“He doesn’t have you anymore.” She felt Tommy relax as he felt the tension in her start to slip away. “You’re safe,” his lips just barely ghosted across her temple. “You’re safe, Lucy. There you go.”

Certain that she was actually lucid and calmed, he loosened his grip on her, pulling away slightly to flick on the lamp, washing the entire room in its dull, golden glow. Lucy cringed and squinted at the sudden change in brightness.

Sinking down into the mattress, she drew her arms up to her chest, tremors starting to wrack through her body, eyes welling with tears. Her back connected with the bed, and she sharply jerked away from it with a yelp.

Whether it was that action that caused the following hurricane of pain, or just what drew her mind’s attention to it, she wasn’t sure. It didn’t entirely matter, the result was the same. She was suddenly deeply aware of just how much everything hurt.

It was howling within her, her wounds screaming and muscles aching. Her back once more felt as though it had been set ablaze. Her split skin throbbed. Her shoulders hurt so badly it sent sparks of white flaring across her eyes.

A sob left her lips, twitching as though she might be able to wriggle away from the pain. But moving only made everything worse.

“Luce?” And then Tommy was there, leaning over her with wide, worried eyes. “Sweetheart, what is it?”

“H-hurts…” she barely could get the word out, but it was enough. Tommy shot up, reaching for the nightstand, pulling from the drawer the bottle of morphine that the doctor had left for her, along with a prescription for more if she needed it. He snatched up the glass of whiskey, downing the remaining of the amber liquid, then pouring a small amount of her medicine into the glass.

“Drink this,” he held it to her lips. The morphine was cold as it touched her tongue and slid down her throat. “Come here,” setting the glass aside, he reached out for her, smoothing his hand along the side of her face. “Look at me. Focus on my voice. Just give it a few minutes love, hm? You’ll be okay.”

Just as he said, it took only a few minutes, and the pain was dulled, her eyes starting to feel heavy again.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, sniffing. Tommy shook his head.

“It’s okay.”

With a sigh, she let her head rest on his chest. “‘M a fucking mess,” she lamented sorrowfully.

“No, honey. No, you’re not. You’re just recovering. It’s alright. I gotcha.” He put his arms around her. “Light on or off?”

“Off.” It was too bright with it on. She felt his muscles flex against her as he reached over to flick it off. “You’re a good nurse.”

His chest buzzed pleasantly against her ear with a quiet chuckle. “You’re high as a kite, love.” He kissed the top of her head. “Go back to sleep.”

“You don’t have to stay.” She desperately wanted him to, but she didn’t want him to feel like he had to continue to stick around and gather up the pieces every time she fell apart. There was no doubt in her mind that she’d be waking up screaming and thrashing from nightmares probably for the foreseeable future. He was probably exhausted. He needed to rest too. “I’ll probably keep waking you up…”

“Good.” His thumb stroked her cheek. “I want you to wake me up every time that you need something.”

Her lips pouted with the desire to cry again at how nice he was being towards her. She stroked her fingers lazily across his chest, feeling how warm and strong he was; reassuring herself that she was probably as safe as was realistically possible when in the circle of his arms.

His fingers curled under her chin, tilting her face up to look into his. “I love you, Lucy,” he kissed her softly, lips soft as a pillow against hers. Tears filled her eyes.

“I love you too.”

He smiled at her gently, placing another kiss between her brows. “Sleep,” he said, and encouraged her to snuggle back down into his chest.

∗ ∗ ∗

Lucy stared at her reflection in the mirror in the washroom, hands gripping either side of the sink’s basin, knuckles white, lip caught between her teeth. Glassy, dead green eyes looked back at her, their judgment harsh and sharp.

God, she looked fucking awful.

The bruises on her face had faded into unflattering shades of purple, green, and yellow. Her skin was sickly, eyes bloodshot and surrounded by dark circles.

And that wasn’t even taking into account the rest of her. She looked like she had been patchworked back together, like a blanket with dozens of holes in it that had been mended with other various scraps of fabric. Or maybe like a crude attempt at dressing up like Frankenstein’s monster.

She knew that the other women–Polly, Ada, Linda, and Lizzie–had all planned to get dolled up in elegant, beaded dresses and expensive jewels and furs for the occasion of Bonnie’s boxing match. There was no way that she could go out like that. The best she would be able to do was dress in layers that would prevent her bandages from getting disturbed too much, and hope that she could hide most of the bruises on her face with makeup.

Tugging at the white button down and trousers she had already pulled on earlier with Tommy’s help, she frowned, pulling her belt a few notches tighter to cinch more securely around her waist. After three days of being fed only tiny scraps of bread, she had lost weight. Also probably not helped by the fact that she’d barely had the appetite to eat anything save for small servings of chicken noodle soup for most of the past week.

Leaning closer to the mirror, she dabbed a little more makeup over a bruise on her cheekbone, trying hard not to wince at the way that the movement pulled tightly at her shoulders.

She did not realize just how much she raised her arms up over her head until she was practically unable to. She couldn’t even grab her favorite mug from the cupboard because it was on a high shelf.

A soft knock sounded at the door. “You okay in there, love?” Tommy’s voice called. Lucy sighed, rubbing at her face.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Be out in a second.”

He had hardly left her side for the last week. Even getting him to let her use to loo on her own had taken a significant amount of convincing. But she appreciated the worry. Frankly the idea of not being close to him was enough to have her teetering on the edge of a panic attack.

Wiping her hands on a towel, she looked herself up and down one last time in the mirror, sighing and determining that this was probably about as good as she was going to be able to manage at the moment.

When she stepped out into the hall, it was to find Tommy leaning against the opposite wall, turning a cigarette over and over between his fingers anxiously. He straightened when he saw her, wedging the cigarette between his lips and holding out a hand to help usher her back into the bedroom.

Her fingers fiddled together as she stepped towards the bed, picking up her waistcoat and shoving her arms through the holes, thankful that it buttoned in the front so she wouldn’t have to raise her arms to get it on. Tommy approached her, reaching out to do up the buttons for her, then helping her into her matching suit jacket and coat.

It felt strange to be in her normal clothes after over a week spent in bed in little more than one of Tommy’s shirts. Not exactly a bad strange, though. It would probably do her good to return to a routine.

Tommy smiled down at her, brushing a fallen curl back behind her ear. “Ready?”

“I look like shit.”

His brows pulled together, thrusting out a hand for her to take so he could draw her closer to him, head angling down to kiss her. “You look beautiful. C’mon.”

His fingers squeezed around hers as he led the way down the stairs and to the door. The fresh air, no matter how smoky, felt good on her cheeks after so many days spent cooped up inside.

“You know, you don’t have to come if you aren’t feeling up to it. I’m sure Ada would be happy to stay with you,” Tommy said as they walked. His gait was noticeably slower than usual, to make sure that she wouldn’t struggle to keep up.

Lucy shook her head. The idea of not being with him left her feeling panicky.

“I want to stay with you.”

“Okay,” he didn’t question her. “But you let me know if you’re in pain. Or if you need to go home.”

“Okay.”

Once they got to the boxing ring, she stood at his side, keeping her cap on despite them being indoors, her head angled down to let the shadows it cast partially hide the bruises on her face. Her arms looped through his, hoping that it looked more like she was just lingering close to him as she so often did, and not because she needed to lean on him for stability. The shouts of men and the crush of bodies crowded together seemed louder and more overwhelming than usual. But that may have been because she was pretty sure that if someone jostled into her too hard, she would tip over.

Just before the first round started, Tommy drew her away, his grip firm to help support her as they weaved through the tight maze of hallways that made up the backrooms.

“I thought it would be good for us to sit somewhere quiet for a minute,” he explained, guiding her to a bench in one of the locker rooms. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” she took the cigarette that he offered her, leaning into his side when he sat down beside her. He gingerly wrapped his arm around her, resting the side of his head against her hair.

Her physical ailments aside, what unnerved her the most was her mind. That feeling of numbness and desolation that had overtaken her the day that Tommy brought her home had not abated. Had not even eased at all, really.

Was this what her mind was to be like, now? Aching and constantly overstimulated? Both simultaneously feeling everything and nothing?

She did not want to live like that.

“Lucy?” Tommy asked, thumb stroking her shoulder through the material of her coat.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” she blurted out. It really meant a lot; she knew that she wasn’t particularly fun to be around right now, and with the thousands of other things he had to worry about, that he’d chosen to prioritize her was no small thing.

“Love, you don’t have to thank me for that. It’s what we do.”

She allowed herself a small smile at that, despite the unending anxiety that plagued her; that feeling that there was yet another piece of her that had died in that church. A part of her that was lost forever.

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unholyhelbig · 1 year ago

Note

How about a bartender!Kate in which Kate is a new employee of the bar that reader frequents on bad days and Kate is one of the first people not to sympathize with her and just full of banter. I just think a cocky bartender Kate would be … neat

[This is 18+, if you are a minor DO NOT INTERACT]

Title: Two Fingers of Whiskey

Ship: Female!Reader x Bartender!Kate Bishop

Warnings: Top!Kate, Bottom!reader, Dom!Kate, Sub!reader, light dom/sub, finger sucking, Fingering (r receiving), Hate fuck (?) yeah, this is a hate fuck.

[A/n: Go easy on me, I haven't written smut since my Pitch Perfect days & I've been under quarantine for the last five days, I've got brain rot & did not proofread.]

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Kate began to expect your visits. Her eyes would drift to the novelty Miller High Life clock that was hanging on the wall. Six pm. Twice a week you’d wander into the bar and let out the haze of smoke and Dior Fahrenheit. Your eyes would search for hers with the same amount of ferocity, and Kate would try to swallow back the pride that was resulted by your hatred.

It started out as hatred, anyway.

Kate Bishop had made it a point to listen to people and their problems. Being a bartender at a seedy basement establishment was more than mixing drinks and cracking open frothy beers. She’d been told her first week that she was a half-bit therapist, and had laughed it off until she was listening to stories of corporate drabble, sudden deaths, and quiet loveless frustrations.

It had been two years since she started the nightshift at Copper’s, and she could spot the sadness from miles away. She could spot that frustration too. Kate became admittedly bored with the way her life had fallen into routine, so when a certain energy presented itself, she pushed.

Kate loved to push with you.

You’d looked tentative when you’d first entered Copper’s, your gaze moving across the dark green paint, the booths that were sticky. Your nice shoes had crunched over broken peanut shells and a certain film covered the walls, the stained-glass lamps over each table. Your hand tightened on your bag, and that gave Kate a sick sort of satisfaction. You took note of her nametag, not customed, a small label being printed and taped over an existing name.

She admired the way you carried yourself with such assuredness after allowing for one moment of doubt. Instead of turning around and going back out onto the busy city streets, you took the two steps down and carefully sat yourself at the far end of the bar.

“We don’t have anything fancier than a house white.”

“Boston Lager?”

You’d lifted a perfect eyebrow and Kate nodded stuffing the rag she’d been using into her back pocket before reaching into the cooler and pulling out the dark amber bottle. She used the edge of the counter to pop the cap off, not caring where it landed. Foam dripped across her fingertips, and she forbade a coaster when she set it down in front of you.

Two sips before you spoke. The first was tentative, and the second was assured. Kate watched carefully as your throat worked at the drink. She frowned in the dark light, trying to rush away any inappropriate thoughts of her lips against an expanse of skin.

“I’m not pretentious.” You said, setting the bottle down.

Kate hummed. It was a non-committal noise. She picked up one of the glasses, still warm from going through the dishwasher, and went on wiping the detergent spots from the clear surface. Though, she saw you frown out of the corner of her eye and bit back her reaction.

“Seriously. You offered me wine.”

“You don’t like wine?”

“No. I like wine; I just don’t like when strangers presume that I like wine.”

Kate couldn’t help but smile at this. She replaced a glass and grabbed another one. The frustration on your face was admirable, and you seemed to balk at Kate’s direct attention. You fidgeted and began to peel the edges of the dark blue label on your drink, only where the condensation had allowed easy removal.

“We have house white, darling.”

“White Horse, then. Straight.”

Kate scoffed and set her second glass down. If she had been worried, truly worried, that you were going to do something stupid she would give you a few more watered down beers and send you on your way. But she liked the way you wanted to spite her. It made her fingers twitch. She pulled the bottle from the second shelf and counted two fingers of whiskey.

You took it back in one gulp, breathing through your nose before taking a tiny sip of your beer to quell the burn. Kate was infatuated with the way you sat straighter, the way you flashed her a small cocky smile. I can take the hard stuff.

“Rough day, then?” Kate sighed and filled your glass again, calling your bluff.

She leaned against the counter and watched you watching her. It gave her a sick pleasure, nudging you like this. She wouldn’t’ go far, really, she just needed to have some break in her normal routine, and you seemed like you needed a few things to forget yourself.

“The roughest.” You leveled her with an apprehensive stare. “You care?”

“Not particularly. But I’ll listen.”

“You’re an ass.”

“I’m an ear.” Kate made a sweeping motion with her hand “be my guest, sweetheart. You can vent to anyone in here.”

It was just the two of them. Sure, in about an hour, her usual crowd would rear its head. There were only three others that frequented, and they lingered by the one pool table and ordered two pitchers of the cheapest beer. They left Kate alone and she left them alone.

You contemplated her offer for a brief moment, letting out a labored breath as if Kate was burdening you instead of offering relief. “I have a shitty client. Very demanding.”

“What do you do?” Kate tried.

“I’m an archivist for the city of New York. Cold Cases mainly. There are hundreds of thousands of physical case boxes that reside in basements and closets just waiting to be digitally entered.” You threw back your drink and tapped the side of the glass. Kate took the hint and poured until the buttery liquid coated the bottom.

Kate had to admit; that was quite the job. It sounded like a lot of sadness, however, that wasn’t what you carried on your shoulders tonight. Annoyance was the overarching emotion that was expressed on your delicate features.

So, the bartender did what she did best, she didn’t’ ask about what was in the boxes. She wasn’t privy to know. She wanted to know what about the boxes bothered you to the point of drinking close to a handle of liquor in a seedy bar.

You answered before she could ask “corporate bullshit. They want us to enter all of these cases for the pure purpose of shelving them electronically. I mean, we don’t even have a cold case unit anymore. But some of these… you can tell the leg work wasn’t done. The boyfriend did it. The jealous co-worker, it’s all written so plainly that I stupid archivist that should be working at a museum can see it!”

“Wow.” Kate said.

“Wow?”

She hummed again, this time after you swallowed your drink, she took the glass and threw it into the plastic tub. It made an empty hollow sound. Kate grinned at you in this infuriating type of way that made you want to kiss her or slap her. Either way, you shifted uncomfortably.

“What do you want me to say, sweetheart? That’s a shit situation, yeah. But there are shittier ones.”

“You are such an ass.” You repeated your earlier sentiment. She smiled brighter.

“That’ll be $15.00 even.”

Despite her difficulty, you dug through your bag until you threw a twenty on the counter and mumbled that she keep the change. Kate watched as you left that day and the smile never left her face. She liked you, she thought. And more than anything, she knew that you would be back. There was something about Kate’s lack of caring that got to people. There was no sympathy, only agreement.

Two days later you were back inside the grimy interior of Copper’s. It took Kate a second to recognize you. Instead of nicely pressed clothing, you were in a pair of gray sweatpants and a t-shirt that had the band ‘Rush’ scrawled across your chest. Kate didn’t’ let her stare linger. You sat in the same stool, and Kate felt your eyes rake her up and down.

“Have you lodged a formal complaint against me?” Kate asked.

“No.”

“Good. Then what can I get for you, darling?”

You ordered the same Boston Loger as before and Kate complied, not even offering the cheap box-wine they served in a chilled glass just to make it taste a little more worth-it. Strands of hair fell into your eyes and Kate clenched the dishtowel in her hands a little harder to keep herself from reaching forward and brushing them from your stare.

Kate couldn’t hold her tongue, and that annoyed her. The first time she saw you, it was so easy to grate on your nerves. This time, you looked slightly broken, and even Kate had her limits when it came to bothering the patrons.

“What’s wrong?” Kate asked.

“Do you care what’s wrong?”

“If I’m honest, not in the slightest. But you seem bothered, and I’m the only one around the listen.”

“How long?”

Kate raised both of her eyebrows and lilted her head to the side like a confused animal. She had both of her palms pushed up against the bar, a tank-top with the logo of the establishment stretched across her chest. Your mouth was dry, but you didn’t take a sip of your drink. Kate watched as your fingers delicately circled the opening of the amber bottle. You blinked at her, eyelids heavy.

“Excuse me?”

“How long are you going to be alone here?”

She blinked to make sure she heard you right. She had someone coming in to relive her in about an hour but was more than happy to sit here and talk with you until that time. It seemed like you had other ideas, and part of her was curious about that. It shot straight to her core and warmed her cheeks.

“You’re not going to murder me, are you?” Kate teased.

“And add to all those boxes I have to archive? Please.”

Kate cleared her throat and started to work at the back of the apron at her waist. It seemed frantic and you finally lifted your drink, downing it in a few gulps. You needed to let off some steam, it seemed, and Kate was more than happy to provide. After-all, she was a bartender and her job was to listen- to provide. Kate rationalized all of this before she had her apron off.

“Would you look at the time?” you stood, reaching into your pocket and pulling out a ten. “I’m running late. Keep the change, darling.”

Kate paced back and forth along the length of the bar, muttering things to herself. She deserved that, really- she did, but it had been three whole days and she was still sufficiently pissed off that you had thrown her attitude right back at her. That wasn’t allowed.

No one had ever done that to her before and you’d made her stomach roll with attraction and even anticipation with just a few simple words and insinuations. Sure, you tipped well, and you drank and then left, but she didn’t actually want to admit that she was having fun talking to you.

And more than anything, she didn’t want to admit that she was flicking her eyes to the clock on the wall, getting only a slight bit of relief when it passed your usual time. Today, however, you did show up.

Kate could feel the tension in her jaw as she watched you walk through the doors. The scent had become familiar to you, something she could tell by the way you breathed in deeply, grounding yourself.

You wore tighter clothes, and Kate struggled not to rake her eyes up and down your figure, the way the fabric hugged every inch of you. The sweatpants and t-shirt were gone, instead you had on a dress with a long slit running up the side, exposing tanned skin. She focused on the way you walked, the way you leaned forward on the bar, pressing your cleavage forward.

“This isn’t going to work twice.” Kate said, crossing her arms over her chest.

She was admittedly sore over your teasing, despite how well-earned it was. And that tight dress did look stunning on you. Even the low smoggy haze of Coppers she shivered at the thought of tearing it off of you, of moving the zipper down the small of your back and kissing up your spine.

You cleared your throat. “I actually came here to apologize.”

“Did you, now?”

“Yes,” You said through gritted teeth as if it physically pained you to say the words. “You were right… the first time we met. My problems seem big, but compared to other things, they’re not detrimental. Even though I was mad, teasing you like that was below me.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure much is below you.”

Kate raked her eyes up and down your body. Your cheeks heated and you let out a groan. Because damn-it, she was so infuriating, and though you’d come back to the bar a second time to drive her crazy, it seemed to have the opposite effect.

“I have the keys to the boss’s office.” Kate offered deviously “No windows and a desk.”

Kate watched you swallow hard, contemplating her offer. She twirled the keys around her ring finger expertly and when you finally nodded she felt herself lean against the counter, close enough to where her lips brushed yours, the warmth was all encompassing, electrifying.

“I need to hear you say it, sweetheart. What exactly do you want?”

With hesitation you forced the words through your lips. This was wildly out of character for you, usually prim and proper and not demanding things from a strange bartender with ghostly blue eyes and expert fingers. “I want you to take me into that office and fuck me until I can’t walk.”

Kate smiled, closing the gap between the both of you with a breathless kiss, her tongue invading your mouth. You moaned into the simple gesture before she pulled away. “All you had to do was ask.”

With a chivalrous gesture, Kate took your hand and guided you easily down a large step behind the bar. You’d never seen this side of things, and though you hadn’t expected anything breathtaking, it gave you a better view of the empty establishment.

You didn’t have much time to contemplate as you were guided through a narrow hallway that had an employee schedule posted on the wall, and a few boxes of unopened liquor. There was a citrus scent that invaded your senses and soon you were out of the cold and in a small office that looked as if it hadn’t been touched in months.

The hum of the cooling units was drowned out and a warmth caused bumps to rise against your skin. Kate had you pushed against the door in a matter of seconds, her mouth back on yours, a knee between your legs, shoving them open. Desperately, you tried to grind down, alleviating some of the heat in your core.

Kate’s hand came up to grip your chin, disconnecting her lips from yours “We’re impatient, aren’t we?”

You could only whimper in response, the corner of Kate’s mouth lilted up into a semi smile, too much like a smirk for your liking. The expression did things to you. Here was this cocky bartender that was too content for her own good- yet, in this moment, you would let her have you in any way she wanted.

“I’ll fuck you senseless on the desk, but only if you can be patient. Can you do that for me? Can you be a good girl?”

“I… yes.”

“What was that? I thought we talked about you using your words, sweetheart.”

“Can you please fuck me on the desk? I’ll be a good girl.”

That seemed to be enough. Kate slid her hands around to the back of your thighs and lifted you with an unnatural bout of strength, a noise of surprise escaping your lips. You had seen her arms a few days earlier when she was in that tank-top, but she had settled you on the desk effortlessly, standing between your legs.

Kate’s mouth nipped at your jawline, sucking perfect bruised circles against your skin that she soon soothed with her tongue. You didn’t mind her marking you, though you mentally made a note to pick up some concealer on the way home. She made quick work with the zipper at your spine, pulling it down to the warm air. She slid your sleeves down your shoulders, exposing your breasts to her prying eyes.

She took a moment to admire you, giving your hip a small squeeze. You took the hint and lifted off the desk just enough for her to pull the rest of the fabric away. It dropped to the floor. Kate smiled at you, drinking you in. “Wow”

“Wow?”

Kate hummed and returned to working at your chest. This time she went lower, nipping at the sensitive skin around your nipple. You dug your fingers into the fabric of her shirt, letting out a groan of pleasure. Her fingers were testing at the waistline of your underwear, not quite dipping past the elastic.

Kate’s tongue was so warm, so encompassing. You arched your back, not denying her access to any part of you. Her expert hands finally pushed past the barrier of fabric, running up your entrance.

“Oh, shit, darling. You’re so worked up.” Her words vibrated against you, and you struggled not to buck forward, to press into her lingering touch. Kate seemed to sense your frustration. “uh-uh, we’re being patient, remember? If you want release, you’ll have to beg for it.”

Beg? You weren’t the begging type. Unfortunately, you weren’t in the position to do anything but what she demanded. The thought of Kate inside of you, even in the smallest capacity, was driving you insane.

“Kate,” You hummed her name.

A sound got stuck in her throat at the sound of her name pushing through your kiss-bruised lips. She edged the end of the noise, almost phrasing it like a question. She didn’t want to give herself away, how much seeing you like this got her wet.

“Please, I need you inside me. I need to feel you.”

Before you could get out another word, she pushed a single, teasing finger inside. You fell forward, pressing your nose against the small of her neck with an exasperated breath. Kate painstakingly added another finger, pumping in and out of you with a method to her madness. You bit into her shoulder, not enough to hurt, but enough to muffle your noises of satisfaction as she swiped her thumb against your clit.

Kate’s other hand returned to your breast, squeezing and toying. It sent pleasure straight to your core, and Kate could feel you begin to tighten around her. She slowed her movements. “Beg,” She commanded.

“I’m going to cum,” you whispered into her shoulder, grasping fruitlessly at the fabric of her shirt, trying to pull her as close to you as possible.

“Are you?” She asked, slowing her pace.

“I… Kate please let me cum, I can’t hold on much longer I-“ another moan escaped you, and it took you a few breathes to compose yourself to some sort of semblance. “please”.

“That’s a good girl,” Kate praised, returning the circular motions to your clit. “Cum for me, sweetheart.”

That’s all you needed to hear to unwind for her. You clenched around her fingers, chills running from your core to every inch of your exposed body. A guttural noise of pleasure was silenced by Kate’s lips against yours, her throat silencing you as much as she could. Satisfaction rushed through you, aftershocks of her movements twitching through you. Kate withdrew herself from you, a self-assured smile on her lips as she moved them up to her lips and sucked them clean, never breaking eye contact with you.

“I need a drink,” You breathed out, words trembling. Your forehead pressed against hers, still panting, still recovering from her expert touch.

Kate scoffed, shaking her head “We don’t have anything fancier than a house white.”

#Kate Bishop #Kate Bishop x reader #Kate Bishop x y/n #Kate Bishop x you #hailee steinfeld #Hawkeye #hawkeye fanfiction #Request

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giovanni-fiore · 6 days ago

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The house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old wooden floors and the soft rustling of leaves outside. Giovanni sat in the dimly lit parlor, a glass of scotch in hand, the amber liquid catching the faint glow of the single lamp he had left on. Antonio and Nicola had gone to bed hours ago, but sleep felt like a distant concept to him tonight.

He stared at the untouched book on the side table, its pages closed as if mocking his inability to focus. The weight of the past had wrapped itself around his thoughts, pulling him deeper into memories he usually tried to avoid.

The scotch burned as it slid down his throat, but he welcomed the distraction. It didn’t last long. His mind drifted to Giovanni Jr., as it always did when the night grew still and his defenses were at their weakest. He could still hear Nicola’s laughter when they first talked about baby names, the way her hand would rest instinctively on her belly. They were too young, too reckless, but their love had felt indestructible. Until it wasn’t.

Her father had seen to that.

The memory of that confrontation was burned into Giovanni’s mind. The man’s voice had been cold, his threats sharper than any knife. You’ll leave her. Leave this country. Or you’ll regret the consequences. Giovanni had believed him. He didn’t doubt for a second that the man would follow through, and the thought of anything happening to his unsuspecting parents and siblings had been enough to drive him out of Italy. He hadn’t even been able to say goodbye.

Nicola’s tears haunted him for years. She thought he’d abandoned her. How could she not? He had disappeared without a word, just like her father demanded. He carried the guilt like a second skin, but it was nothing compared to the pain of losing his son.

Now, Giovanni couldn’t shake the questions that had begun to surface — questions he hadn’t allowed himself to consider for years. What if Giovanni Jr. wasn’t gone? It was a dangerous thread to pull on, but the doubt was insidious, spreading through his mind until it was all he could think about.

Giovanni reached for his phone, staring at the contact information for an own private investigator he’d been researching for weeks. He desperately wanted to call but controlled himself for the sake of his wife. She wanted to start with her father, to believe that the man who had wronged them so deeply could somehow help.

But Giovanni didn’t share her faith.

His hands clenched into fists on the table, the weight of it all pressing down on him. He had failed once — failed to protect Nicola, failed to protect their son. How could he take that chance again?

The door creaked open behind him, and he turned to see Nicola standing there, Antonio still nestled in her arms. Her eyes softened as she looked at him, but there was a trace of worry there too.

“You’re still up?” she asked softly, stepping into the parlor.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Giovanni admitted, his voice hoarse.

Nicola sat beside him, the baby stirring faintly before settling again. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”

Giovanni nodded, unable to lie to her.

“We’ll find the truth,” Nicola said firmly. “I know it’s not easy, but we’ll figure it out. Together.”

Her words were a balm, but the doubt lingered. Could they really trust the man who had caused them so much pain? Giovanni didn’t know. But as he looked at Nicola and Antonio, he realized he would do whatever it took to bring their family some closure — even if it meant revisiting the darkest parts of his past.

#[ giovanni 8 ]

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mxnsterbabe · 8 months ago

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Male Vampire/Female Reader SFW Wordcount: 3,656 Commissions | Ko-fi | Masterlist

You've been told never to invite Beau inside the Halfway House, and you don't plan to. Except, he finds a way inside anyway - and he might not be all that you thought.

The chill of the winter evening bit at your skin as you stepped off the final leg of your journey, the quaint silhouette of Esmeralda's Halfway House emerging through the mist. Your day had been a mess of minor misfortunes; trains delayed by the winter weather, connections missed by mere moments. Now, well past dinner, the glow from the windows of the halfway house promised a sanctuary from the cold.

Miss Esmeralda, upon opening the door, was like a burst of summer in the heart of winter. Her welcoming smile, wide and genuine, immediately enveloped you in a warmth that the evening's frost could not penetrate. "You must be frozen," she exclaimed, her concern palpable as she ushered you inside, the door closing with a reassuring thud behind you.

The interior of the house was a contrast to the bleakness outside. Warm light bathed the walls, casting long, comforting shadows that danced gently in the periphery. Esmeralda led you through the hallway, her steps confident and inviting, to a room that she announced would be yours. It was a modest space, but the attention to comfort was evident in every detail—from the plush quilt on the bed to the soft, amber glow of the bedside lamp.

"I'll have someone bring your bags up shortly," Esmeralda promised, her voice carrying the cadence of someone who had spent a lifetime caring for others. "You settle in. Make yourself at home."

Despite the lateness of the hour, Esmeralda insisted on introducing you to a few of the residents who lingered in the communal areas, their night not yet drawn to a close. First were the twin gargoyles, Olivier and Laurent. They perched on the edge of a sturdy oak table, their forms more fluid than one might expect from creatures of stone. Their greeting was a chorus of nods, their expressions carved into gentle smirks that hinted at a playful nature beneath their statuesque exteriors.

Then there was Camilla, the dryad, who seemed almost a part of the house itself as she shyly hid in the shadows. She was reserved, her demeanour as delicate as the frost patterns on a windowpane, yet her smile towards you was warm, inviting—a silent welcome into this eclectic family.

Esmeralda explained that the other residents had already retired for the evening. The house, she shared, was a refuge not just for those who found themselves at the mercy of circumstance but also for those seeking redemption.

As Esmeralda guided you through the house, she pointed out the key areas with a sense of pride. The kitchen, she explained, was the heart of the home, where you'd spend most of your time crafting meals that brought everyone together. It was spacious and well-equipped, with pots hanging like metallic fruit from the ceiling and herbs lining the windowsill, their scents mingling in the warm air.

Next was the library, a cosy room lined with shelves that reached towards the high ceiling, filled with books of every imaginable genre. "A place for quiet reflection," Esmeralda remarked, her voice softening with reverence for the written word.

As you admired the library's stained glass window, a sudden noise from outside momentarily distracted you.

Esmeralda's expression tightened, a rare frown crossing her features. "That's only Beau," she said, her tone carrying a hint of discomfort. "An old guest who's no longer welcome here. Just don't invite him in or speak to him, and you'll be fine."

The warning piqued your curiosity, but before you could inquire further, your gaze was drawn to a fleeting image outside the library window—a figure with long white hair that caught the moonlight, creating an almost ethereal glow.

Miss Esmeralda, perhaps sensing your lingering curiosity about the figure outside, quickly steered the tour towards the living room and game room. The living area was spacious yet cosy, with plush sofas and a crackling fireplace that seemed to invite long, comfortable evenings. The game room boasted an eclectic mix of entertainment, from vintage board games to a well-worn pool table, clearly designed to bring joy and relaxation to its inhabitants.

As she showed you around, Esmeralda shared a bit of the house's history. "This was originally my grandmother's home, then it passed to my mother. My parents transformed it into this halfway house about fifty years ago, and now... it's mine," she explained, her voice tinged with a mixture of pride and nostalgia.

The warmth in her words prompted you to ask, "Are you human, Miss Esmeralda?" The question had been dancing on the tip of your tongue since you'd arrived, given the unique nature of the halfway house's residents.

With a playful twinkle in her eye, Esmeralda winked and replied, "You'll have to stay long enough to find out."

Feeling the conversation shift away from the enigmatic Beau, you found yourself smiling, the tension eased by Esmeralda's charm and the homely feel of the house.

After Esmeralda excused herself to attend to other matters, promising to let you settle in, you wandered back to the library, drawn by the promise of losing yourself in a good book. The room, with its walls of stories and the gentle hush that filled the air, felt like a refuge.

As you browsed the shelves, the sight of an open window caught your attention, the night breeze causing the curtains to flutter softly. A shiver ran down your spine, not from the cold, but from the reminder of the white-haired figure.

As you reached for the window to close it, a voice drifted in from the darkness, its tone laced with a quiet desperation. "Please, may I come in?"

The owner of the voice was just a slender silhouette against the blackness, elusive and barely discernible. Your heart raced, Esmeralda's warning echoing in your mind. With a steadiness you didn't feel, you responded, "I'm sorry, I can't let you in."

The figure outside seemed undeterred, their plea softening. "I only wish to apologise to Miss Esmeralda, you understand. She won't listen."

Despite the sincerity in the voice, your anxiety held firm, a tight knot in your stomach. "No, I really can't let you in." you repeated, your voice firmer this time, even as you reached to close the window fully.

The soft glow from the library's lamp illuminated slender fingers and manicured nails resting against the window sill, adorned with a single silver ring that caught the light. The sight of such human-like hands made your stomach flutter.

Before they could say anything else, your shaking hands slammed the window closed. Then you turned heel and ran, the idea of choosing a book now abandoned in the wake of your frayed nerves.

Retreating to the sanctuary of your room, you changed into pyjamas, unwilling to let yourself think about the man outside for too long. If you did, then you’d start to over think, and that never ended well. It was difficult not to think about those strange, elongated fingers though, or the soft voice that asked may I come in?

Crawling into bed, the quiet of the house enveloped you; but the peace you wanted remained elusive.

As sleep finally claimed you, you wondered if there was more to all of this than Miss Esmeralda was letting on.

***

Waking early the next morning, you felt a sense of purpose as you made your way to the kitchen, determined to start your day on a positive note by preparing breakfast for the house.

Camilla, the dryad with sparkling skin, joined you silently as you were looking for the seasonings. Without words, she guided you through the kitchen, her delicate hands pointing out where the essentials were stored, her silent efficiency easing your way.

As the house slowly woke and the residents gathered to eat, the kitchen became a hub of quiet activity, the sounds of morning routines weaving together in a symphony of new beginnings. With your own plate in hand, you decided to use the opportunity to explore.

Wandering the halls with a sense of curiosity, you stumbled upon a little side room, its door slightly ajar, inviting exploration. Pushing it open, you discovered a small living room, much smaller than the other rooms you’d seen.

The room was bathed in soft, natural light from a skylight above, casting gentle shadows across the plush armchairs. A small bookshelf lined one wall, its shelves filled with well-thumbed novels and worn poetry collections, the scent of old paper and whispered stories filling the air. In the corner, a small fireplace, dusty with misuse.

Above the fireplace, a painting caught your eye, its figures rendered with such lifelike precision they seemed almost ready to step out of the frame. There was an older man and woman — she in a gown with wide, voluminous skirts, a bodice laced tight, and he in a coat with elaborate cuffs and a waistcoat richly embroidered.

They were both smiling.

Beside them stood a curly-haired girl, her face eerily similar to Esmeralda. She even had the same mole beneath her left eye, the same quirk to her lips.

A boy, no more than ten, stood beside her, his pale blond hair falling over his eyes. His pose was casual, a hint of mischief in his smile.

As you stared up at the painting, a voice startled you. "That was my family, centuries ago," Esmeralda’s voice said, and you spun to see her smile tinged with sadness as she joined you in front of the painting.

You turned to her, the pieces of the puzzle beginning to fit together in your mind. "Centuries?" you echoed, the implications slowly dawning on you.

"Yes, my brother and I were turned into vampires when we were still quite young. Our parents, however, remained human... They grew old and passed away, leaving us with this legacy."

You swallowed thickly. You were at a halfway house for monsters, you reminded yourself. It made sense that the host was one, too.

"And the house?” You asked. “You mentioned it was your grandmother's."

A soft laugh escaped her, tinged with memories. "Indeed, it was. Just... a bit more long ago than you might think. This house has been in our family since it was built in the sixteenth century, until it became the refuge it is today."

Your shock must have mirrored on your face, because Esmeralda laughed softly.

"It all makes sense now," you murmured, suddenly too aware of the shaking in your hands. Your plate rattled when you set it down.

Hesitantly, you pointed to the boy in the painting, the one with the pale blond hair and piercing blue eyes. "Him? I have a feeling I know who that might be..."

Esmeralda's expression darkened slightly, a shadow passing over her features. "Yes, that's Beau," she confirmed, her voice heavy. "He was part of this family, once. I had to make the difficult decision to ask him to leave. He... he started feeding on some of the guests in their sleep."

You shivered.

"He was found out because one of the guests was a werewolf. The blood made Beau violently ill, and that's when we discovered what he had been doing."

You were beginning to wonder what you’d gotten yourself into. "When I spoke to him, “you said, “he seemed genuinely regretful.”

Esmeralda's eyes widened, lips parted in a gasp. "You've been speaking to him?" The idea seemed to alarm her more than it should have "Please, I must insist—Beau is not to be trusted. His regret, while it may seem genuine, comes after too much harm has been done. It's best to keep your distance, for your own safety."

"What harm can talking do?" you pressed. "Don't vampires need an invitation to come in? I haven't invited him in."

Esmeralda nodded, her expression grave. "Yes, they must be invited; but you must understand, an invitation, once given, can only be revoked by the owner of the house. If you, even unknowingly, invite him in… I won’t necessarily be there to help."

The weight of her words settled heavily between you. "So, I shouldn’t even risk it?” you asked softly.

"Exactly," Esmeralda confirmed, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. "Keep the windows closed at all times, and do not venture outside after dark. You’re the only human here; it's for your safety as much as it is for the safety of everyone in this house."

Despite your protests, your inclination to see the good in others, Esmeralda remained insistent. She gently but firmly steered you out of the room, back towards the kitchen, her protective stance unwavering.

The conversation was clearly over, the warning issued with a finality that left coldness creeping into your bones.

***

Several days passed before curiosity and a longing for the library overcame your apprehension. The space, with its endless rows of books, eventually beckoned you back.

It seemed the library wasn't a popular haunt among the residents; Olivier and Laurent preferred the game room, while Camilla, with her gentle nature, kept mostly to herself.

So, you found yourself alone, the quiet of the room wrapping around you like a familiar blanket. You browsed the shelves, deliberately avoiding the windows, still mindful of Esmeralda's warnings.

However, as you moved through the room, you noticed the curtains at one window were tangled. Compelled to fix them, you approached, your hands reaching out to untangle the fabric. That's when you heard it—a soft tap, barely audible, at the window.

Your first instinct was to ignore it, to listen to Esmeralda's warnings and walk away. Yet, curiosity gnawed at you, coupled with a sliver of hope that perhaps Esmeralda was wrong. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for understanding.

You opened the window just enough to speak, cautious yet driven by a desire to understand. Beau, standing just beyond the reach of the library's soft light, seemed to exhale a sigh of relief at the small concession.

"I appreciate this... truly," Beau began, his voice smooth yet tinged with sincerity. "It's been a long time since anyone at Esmeralda's has been willing to hear me out."

You hesitated before replying, "Esmeralda did mention you, but it was more a warning to stay away from you than anything else." The words felt harsh even as they hung in the air, but you felt compelled to be honest.

His shadow flinched. "That makes sense," he conceded. "I suppose I can't blame her. I did things I'm not proud of. Continue to do things I’m not proud of."

You said nothing, even as your pulse thundered in your ears.

He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts before continuing. "There was a reason for it all, I assure you. Esmeralda thought we could... wean ourselves off human blood. She managed, somewhat, to control her urges. For me, it was never that simple."

You leaned closer to the crack in the window, maintaining a cautious distance, pulse thudding. "What do you mean?"

His pale eyes flashed in the darkness. They were almost iridescent, pearly and beautiful.

Captivated, you leaned in closer, elbows resting on the windowsill.

"For Esmeralda, being turned was a gift," he began, his voice carrying a hint of both admiration and envy. "It gave her a chance to be more, to escape the confines of what society expected of her. She's flourished over the centuries, becoming... well, more than I think even she anticipated."

He paused, and you just barely saw sharp teeth and a gleaming, albeit humourless, smile. "For me, it wasn't the same. I've always been in her shadow, struggling to find my place, to define who I am beyond this... condition."

The vulnerability in his confession made you shiver, longing to reach out and take his hand. To apologise for all that had happened to him.

"My bloodlust is stronger than hers, it always has been. Drinking from the residents in their sleep—it was a way to cope, to stave off the hunger without losing myself to it. I was terrified of what might happen if I let the hunger control me, though thankfully, it never came to that."

Sympathy tugged at your heart, tears prickling the corner of your eyes. It seemed to you that Beau was a product of his creation, not somebody who wanted to cause harm.

"If only I could tell her in person,” he said, “speak to Esmeralda face to face, and tell her I'm sorry.”

You bit the inside of your lip, knowing how futile that was. “Esmeralda won’t speak to you. You’d have to come in and hunt her down yourself—”

His eyes flashed, and too late you realised what you’d done. Cold dread filled you. “Wait! No, I wasn’t asking you to actually do that!”

Too late. Suddenly the window, previously only cracked open, swung wider, the cold night air rushing in. Before you could react, a figure gracefully manoeuvred through the opening, long coat billowing in the breeze.

Standing before you was Beau, in the flesh. He was tall and willowy, his pale skin almost luminescent in the dim light of the library. His white-blond hair was braided, falling over one shoulder in a cascade of pale silk. It was his eyes that truly captivated you, though; pale to the point of being almost purple, his pupils black against the soft lilac.

"Thank you for letting me in," Beau said with a smirk. “It was so kind of you.”

You stepped back with a jolt, knees buckling; but before you could retreat further, Beau closed the distance with a single, fluid motion, wrapping his long arms and pulling you flush against his strong chest.

In that moment, every cautionary tale, every warning about vampires you'd ever heard, flashed through your mind. You braced yourself for the sharp pain of fangs, for the sensation of being drained.

It never came. Instead, there was only the warmth of his embrace, the softness of his hair brushing against your cheek, and the steady beat of a heart you hadn't expected him to possess.

"I've been staying in a cottage further down the road," Beau murmured into the embrace, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "Finally, I'm home."

Hesitantly, your arms lifted to return the embrace, wrapping around Beau in a tentative gesture. It was clear from the tension that slowly ebbed away from his frame that he needed this little moment to gather himself.

Then, without warning, Beau's lips found yours in a kiss that took your breath away. For a moment, you were frozen, shock coursing through you; but as the kiss deepened, the initial astonishment gave way to a warmth that unfurled in you, your body responding to his with a warmth that left you baffled.

The kiss was gentle even as his fangs clicked against your own duller teeth. There was no taste of blood, no hint of the predator in the way he kissed you. Instead, there was the delicate flavour of herbal tea and sugar, sweet and perfumed.

When he finally pulled away, there was a smug satisfaction in his smirk, a playful glint in his pale eyes. "Just a little thank you," he murmured, brushing hair from your face. “For letting me inside.”

"You do realise I didn't mean to invite you in," you managed to say, half-hearted irritation mingling with the lingering warmth from his kiss.

Beau's response came with a sly, teasing edge. "Consider it a warning, then. Not all vampires are as charming and handsome as I am."

Your laughter broke the tension, a sound that seemed to delight him. His hand came up to cup your jaw gently, a gesture that was both tender and possessive. The cool touch of his fingers sent a shiver down your spine, not from fear, but from the electricity that seemed to spark between you.

"Won't you talk to Esmeralda now?" you asked, hoping to steer the conversation back to safer grounds, to the apology he had insisted he needed to make.

"No, that can wait," Beau replied, his gaze locked with yours. "What I really wanted was to get a good look at you. I must say, I like what I see."

The boldness of his words, the unabashed way he admired you, stirred something deep within you—it wasn’t something you could name, but it had warmth spreading through you.

Before you could voice a protest, he leaned in for another kiss. This time, you were ready for it, the anticipation sending a flush across your skin.

The kiss deepened, Beau's lips pressing against yours with a fervour that was absent in the first. Although his hands were gentle, he gripped you with a purpose, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. The sensation was heady, intoxicating, the kind of kiss that made you forget where you were, that there was a world beyond the two of you.

When you finally came up for air, you were breathless, a sheen of sweat on your skin despite the cool air of the library.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a kiss quite that good.”

Laughter spilled from your lips, as you pressed into his chest to avoid meeting his gaze. “Really?”

“Really.”

There was a pause, long enough that you glanced up to see if Beau was all right. He looked down at you, gaze soft, and confessed, "I don't know if I can make things right with Esmeralda... but I want to try."

The vulnerability tugged at something deep within you. "I'll help you," you said. "But only If I can keep kissing you like that."

Beau's laughter was rich and carefree, dispelling any lingering tension. "Of course," he promised, his smile both wicked and tender. "There will be plenty more kisses like that, I assure you."

“Good. Then how about we start now?”

Without hesitation, he dove in for another kiss.

#monster fucker #monster x reader #monster romance #monster boyfriend #exophilia fiction #exophilia #tag: mxf #tag: male monster #tag: female reader #tag: vampire #tag: sfw

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snowwybear · 1 month ago

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Mother Goose | chapter four

Summary: all you can do love despite the world filled with hate. For 3 years you have been dating your loving boyfriend Joel Miller, while also being a motherly figure to his teenage daughter Sarah. The two of you get separated the day of the outbreak never to see each other again. 20 years later the two of reunite.

➀ | ➁ | ➂

warnings: spoilers for the hbo show and video game, fluff, angst, mention of child death

You push open the heavy wooden door of the Tipsy Bison, the familiar creak announcing your arrival. The warm light spills from the hanging lamps, casting a golden glow over the rustic interior. The walls are lined with hunting trophies, deer heads mounted on the wooden beams, giving the place a rugged, cozy charm. The bar, polished from years of use, is lined with half-filled bottles of liquor, and a few stools are scattered in front of it.

As you step inside, the warmth of the fire in the corner wraps around you, a stark contrast to the biting cold outside. You glance around the room, your eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. The quiet murmur of conversation fills the air, a mix of laughter and soft chatter from the small crowd gathered for the evening. Jackets hang by the door, some dusted with snow from the frosty night.

And then you see him—Joel—sitting at the bar. His back is to you, but you’d recognize that posture anywhere. His shoulders are slightly hunched, as though weighed down by something unseen, yet his presence is unmistakable. He’s sipping from a glass, lost in thought.

The sight tugged at something deep inside you—a mixture of nostalgia and longing. Taking a deep breath, you made your way through the crowd, weaving between tables until you stood in front of him. His eyes flicked up when he noticed the movement, and for a second, he just stared at you like he was still processing the fact that you were really there, like he didn’t quite know how to act around you anymore.

“Hey,” you said softly, offering a small smile.

“Hey,” Joel replied, his voice rough, though there was a slight crack in it, a hint of something he was holding back. He gestured to the chair across from him. “Wanna sit?”

You nodded and slid into the chair, your knees brushing under the small table. For a few beats, there was silence. Not the comfortable kind you used to share, but the heavy, loaded kind, where the weight of all the years between you hung unspoken in the air.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Joel finally said, breaking the quiet. His eyes met yours, a touch of vulnerability beneath the usual guarded expression.

You shrugged, trying to keep your voice light even though your heart was pounding. “Figured I might as well.”

Joel took a sip from his glass, his gaze never leaving yours. “It’s been... strange. Seeing you again.”

“Yeah,” you breathed out, glancing around the bar for a second, then back at him. “I know what you mean.”

Another silence fell, and you could feel the unasked questions hanging between you. You wondered if Joel was thinking the same thing, you were—about the life you could have had, about the moments you lost. About Sarah.

You both sat there in the dim light, the sounds of the bar fading into the background, sharing a drink and the quiet presence of each other. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for now.

“Joel, I—” you started, but he cut you off gently, shaking his head.

“Don’t”. he said quietly, his voice strained but firm.

"I'm sorry about Sarah," You didn't listen to his warning. "Tommy told me about what happened..."

Joel's jaw tightened at the mention of Sarah, his eyes dropping to his glass as if studying the amber liquid inside could drown out the ache that flared up at her name. You could see his knuckles whiten around the glass, the tension in his body rising like a wave.

“I said, don’t,” he muttered again, but this time it was softer, almost pleading. There was pain there, raw and barely contained, the kind that hadn't lessened even with the passing of two decades.

You swallowed, unsure if pushing further was the right thing to do. "I understand how hard it is for you, I really do".

Joel's gaze snapped to yours, sharp and filled with a mixture of pain and defiance. "You don’t get it," he hissed, his voice gruff and low, like he was trying to contain the flood of emotions threatening to break free. "I’ve lost more than you can even imagine".

Joel’s sudden outburst sliced through the air; his voice low but laced with anger that had been simmering beneath the surface. The intensity of his words hit you hard, the heat of his emotions palpable even in the warm, dimly lit bar. His grip on the glass tightened, knuckles white, and you could see the strain on his face, every line and scar etched deeper by the years and the grief he carried.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady the rush of emotions, but you didn’t back down. “I’ve lost too, Joel. This world took one of the most important things from me—” Your voice faltered, the grief rising in your chest like a tidal wave, threatening to pull you under. You stopped yourself before you said too much, the pain tightening your throat.

It wasn’t about Joel. Not even about Sarah. No, this wound ran deeper, a loss that still clawed at you, raw and unhealed. You understood grief—the kind that gnawed at your insides, hollowing you out slowly. You knew what it was like to carry that weight. But his hostility, his refusal to acknowledge that you, too, had suffered—it gnawed at you in a different way. It stung.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing the emotion down even though it fought to surface. “You’re not the only one who’s lost everything.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended, frustration bubbling to the surface. You wanted him to see it—to see you—and not just dismiss your pain because it wasn’t his.

Joel’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t compare,” he snapped, his voice low but cutting. “You don’t know what I’ve done, what I’ve had to do.”

“I’m not comparing,” you shot back, your voice steady now, fuelled by the frustration you’d been holding in. "I've done stuff too; we all have to survive".

Your words hung in the air like a challenge, one that Joel clearly wasn’t ready to face. His jaw clenched, his hand tightening around the glass again, knuckles white. But he didn’t respond, didn’t lash out like you half-expected. Instead, his eyes flickered—something dark, haunted, moving behind them. For a second, you thought he might actually say something, admit that you were right. But the moment passed, and the hardness in his face returned.

“I don’t need a lecture,” Joel muttered under his breath, staring down at the worn wood of the bar. “Not from you.”

The words stung, but you held your ground. “I’m not giving you one. I’m just saying that you’re not the only one who’s done things they regret.”

“I’ve done more than you can imagine,” he snapped, his voice low but full of venom. “Don’t act like you get it.”

You could feel your frustration boiling over now, the weight of his words pressing down on you. He always did this—shutting people out, acting like no one could possibly understand what he’d been through. And maybe that was true. Maybe no one could ever fully grasp the depth of his loss. But that didn’t give him the right to dismiss everyone else’s pain like it didn’t matter.

“Joel,” you began, your voice softer now, the anger draining away. “I’m not trying to fight with you. I just… I want you to know that you don’t have to carry it all alone.”

He flinched, just barely, but enough that you noticed. His shoulders slumped slightly, and for the first time, he looked away—not out of anger, but like he was struggling to keep it all together.

“Maybe I don’t want to let anyone in,” he murmured, his voice so low you almost missed it.

You bite your lip, watching him, the weight of his words settling over you. There was a part of you that wanted to push him, to demand that he let you in, that he stops closing himself off from everyone. But there was another part—a quieter part—that understood. Maybe he wasn’t ready. Maybe he never would be.

Not knowing what else to say, you stood up from you chair and left the Tipsy Bison. He was different, you were different. The world has changed you both so much, it felt foolish to expect the same Joel you had fallen in love with 20 years ago. It was foolish to hope you and Joel would pick up where you left off - there was so much time between you, too much that maybe it was hopeless trying to rebuild what you once had.

There was a knock at your door. Though it wasn’t uncommon for someone to come by in the middle of the night, it always caught you off guard. Your heart skipped a beat as you pushed yourself off the couch, the late-hour visit putting you on edge.

When you opened the door, you didn’t expect to see Joel Miller standing there—not after the tense conversation at the bar just a few hours ago. His silhouette was shadowed in the dim moonlight, but you could still make out the stiffness in his posture, the way he was gripping the brim of his jacket like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

“Joel?” you asked, your voice soft, unsure.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just stood there, his expression unreadable, eyes dark and intense as they flicked between you and the ground. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke, his voice rough and low, like he’d been wrestling with something the whole way over.

His gaze flicked up to meet yours, and for the first time that night, there was no anger, no walls. Just Joel. “Can I come in?”

You hesitated for only a second before stepping aside, holding the door open wider. “Yeah. Of course.”

Joel stepped into your home, the faint creak of the wooden floor beneath his boots breaking the silence. He hesitated as his eyes swept the room, his gaze lingering longer than necessary on the bare walls, the sparse furniture. The place was neat but stripped of anything that hinted at the person you once were. No photos, no personal touches—just a space that felt more like shelter than a home.

He'd expected... something. The warmth you used to exude, the little details that had always made your space feel alive. Instead, there was nothing. It was as if time and the harshness of the world had drained the life out of you, leaving behind only the essentials, just like everyone else in this broken world.

Joel shifted awkwardly, his hands still clutching the edges of his jacket. The absence of who you used to be weighed on him. Maybe you were right. Maybe he didn’t know what you’d gone through, didn’t have the full picture of the things you had faced and the person you’d become.

I'm sorry," Joel said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blinked, stunned for a moment, not sure if you'd heard him right. Your eyes widened slightly as you met his gaze, searching for some sign that this was a mistake or that he hadn’t meant it. But there was no mistaking the look on his face—the quiet weight of sincerity that clung to his words. Joel wasn’t the kind of man to hand out apologies lightly.

For a second, the room felt too quiet, too still. The space between you both seemed to shrink, but not in the comforting way it once had. Now, it was thick with unspoken grief, pain, and maybe a little bit of regret.

“I’m sorry for what I said. For not understandin'—for... everything.”

You let out a shaky breath, the unexpectedness of it throwing you off balance. Joel wasn’t one to apologize, and yet here he was, standing in your empty house, offering you the one thing you never thought you’d hear from him.

“I—” You started to say something, but the words caught in your throat. What could you even say to that? You weren’t sure if an apology could erase all the things between you, all the hurt and time that had passed, but hearing it cracked something open inside you, something you didn’t realize had been locked away for so long.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, not like before. It was heavy, yes, but it was also a little lighter now tinged with the possibility of something more, something like forgiveness.

Maybe Joel hadn’t changed completely. Maybe you hadn’t either. But this—this small act of humility, of Joel swallowing his pride and admitting he’d been wrong—felt like a step toward something. What, exactly, you didn’t know. But it was a start.

“I was supposed to protect her. I was her dad, and I—” He stopped, taking a moment to catch his breath, the weight of his words hanging in the air. “I failed. I was meant to keep her safe, and I failed…”

You knew that feeling all too well, the unbearable pain of losing a loved one—your own child, no less. The shared grief hung between you like a fragile thread, binding your wounds together in a way that felt both comforting and terrifying.

“We all carry something, Joel.” You stepped closer, feeling the distance between you shrink. “I thought I could handle it on my own. I thought that if I just kept pushing forward, I’d find a way to keep moving. But I was wrong.”

For a moment, silence enveloped you both, a sacred space where words weren’t necessary. The shadows of the room seemed to draw closer, cocooning you in a fragile bubble of understanding.

"I know," he says, the weight of his words heavy in the air. "It's just... seeing you reminds me of her. Of what life was like back when the world hadn’t ended."

His admission hung between you, thick with shared grief. You could see the flicker of memories in his eyes—glimpses of a time when laughter filled the air, when innocence still existed, unmarred by the harsh realities of survival. The mention of her name felt like a ghost haunting the space between you, an uninvited reminder of the past you both carried.

His eyes softened, and you could see the walls he had built around himself starting to crumble, piece by piece. “It makes me feel so damn helpless,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “I thought I could protect her, that I could keep her safe from the world. But in the end, I failed. And that guilt… it haunts me.”

“I know that guilt,” you said, stepping closer. “It’s like a weight you carry, always pressing down, reminding you of what you lost and what you could have done differently. The world we live in—it’s unforgiving. But the truth is, we can’t erase what happened. What we can do is learn to carry it with us. It doesn’t have to define us. It can be a part of us without consuming us.”

He looked up, his expression shifting as he processed your words. “How do you do that?”

“It was hard,” you admitted, the weight of your own journey pressing down on you. “Really hard. But in a strange way, it brought me here. If everything that happened hadn’t happened, I never would have reunited with Tommy, and I wouldn’t have found a place in Jackson. I had to learn to focus on the good, even when it felt like the bad was suffocating.”

Joel stepped closer, closing the gap between you, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. He cupped your cheek with one of his hands, his touch warm and grounding. “I don’t know what you went through,” he said softly, his voice low and steady, “and you don’t have to tell me that now".

You chuckle lightly, the tension in the air shifting just a bit. “You don’t have to be so strong all the time, you know?”

“I know,” he replies, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he rubs his thumb against the soft skin of your cheek. “I don’t know how, but I’m willing to try.”

“That’s all you need to do.” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath. You lean into his touch, feeling the warmth radiate from him, and for a moment, the weight of the world outside your walls fades away.

“I love you,” he whispers to you, his voice barely more than a breath, yet it carries the weight of a lifetime.

Your heart swells at his words, the gravity of those three simple words washing over you like a tidal wave. It had been twenty long years since you last heard them, and the impact is profound. Time seems to stand still, the world around you fading into a blur as you focus solely on him.

“I love you too.” The words slip from your lips, a sweet release that feels like both a promise and a renewal all at once. In that instant, the air around you thickens with unspoken emotions, the weight of your confessions lingering like a soft echo.

For a heartbeat, the world falls away. You find yourselves lost in each other’s eyes, a deep connection grounding you both in this moment of vulnerability and understanding. Everything else fades into the background—the chaos of the past, the uncertainty of the future—until all that exists is the two of you, suspended in this shared truth.

Joel’s gaze softens, his eyes reflecting a mixture of relief and longing, as if he’s finally found his way back home. He leans in, the space between you disappearing, his breath warm against your skin.

“I don’t want to wait any longer,” he murmurs, the urgency in his voice sending a rush of anticipation through you. Then, without hesitation, he brings you in for a kiss.

His lips find yours with a fervor that takes your breath away. In that moment, everything else melts away. The kiss is tentative at first, a gentle exploration as if you’re both testing the waters, but it quickly deepens, fueled by the years of longing and the weight of everything left unsaid.

You respond with equal passion, your hands finding their way to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him closer. The kiss ignites a spark within you, awakening feelings that had lain dormant for too long. You can feel the warmth radiating from his body, the strength of his presence enveloping you in a cocoon of safety and belonging.

His hands roam over your body, as if trying to jog his memory of you—tracing the curve of your waist, the gentle slope of your back, every touch igniting a thrill that sends waves of warmth through you. Each caress feels like a promise, a vow to cherish and protect, and you instinctively lean into him, craving more of this closeness.

In this moment, the years of separation dissolve, and the intimacy you once shared floods back, richer and deeper than before. It’s as if you’re rediscovering each other all over again, piecing together the fragments of your shared history and forging something new in their place.

The kiss deepens further, a mingling of breath and warmth, each shared heartbeat resonating with a rhythm that feels familiar and yet so excitingly new. You lose track of time, all that matters is the heat of his body against yours and the way his lips move with a tenderness that makes your heart race.

As you finally pull away, breathless and wide-eyed, the world comes rushing back in—a flood of emotions, memories, and a hopeful future. You rest your forehead against his, both of you panting softly, smiles breaking through the remnants of tension.

“I’ve missed you,” you admit, your voice a whisper as you lean in to steal another quick kiss, savoring the taste of him. But as you pull back, a surge of longing flares in Joel’s eyes. His hand moves to cradle your face, gently guiding your lips back to his.

He keeps his lips on yours, his kiss filled with an urgency that speaks of years lost and a hunger to make up for the time apart. He’s waited twenty long years to see you, to kiss you, to hold you again—and in this moment, he’s not letting anything get in the way of the two of you.

Every kiss deepens the connection, intertwining your souls, as if you’re stitching together the fabric of your shared lives. Time stretches, and the chaos of the world outside feels distant, irrelevant. You can taste the bittersweet essence of his longing, mixed with a fervent hope for the future.

With every kiss, you feel the barriers you had both built slowly crumbling, leaving only the truth of your feelings—raw, honest, and beautiful. You lose yourself in the moment, allowing the past to fade and the present to take hold, embracing the reality of the love that has always lingered beneath the surface.

As you finally part, both of you breathless, the air around you hums with promise. The world may still be a tumultuous place, but in this small corner of it, you’ve found each other again, and that makes all the difference.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Joel murmurs against your lips, a vow that echoes in the depths of your heart. “Not this time.”

You smile, the warmth of his words wrapping around you like a cherished blanket. “Good,” you reply, your heart swelling with hope. “Because I don’t want to let you go.”

In that moment, you know you’ve both chosen to embrace love again, ready to face whatever challenges come your way—together.

#snowwybear #joel the last of us #the last of us game #the last of us #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller tlou #tlou game #tlou fic #tlou fanfiction #joel tlou #ellie williams #mother goose

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bodhrancomedy · 4 months ago

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A bunch of opening paragraphs to fantasy stories I've started because I am bad at finishing things.

" The streaks of crimson in the river were slowly thickening as we fought our way upstream. The bubbles weren’t even bursting anymore, whatever gas was lurking beneath the surface clearly couldn’t release. On one hand, I thought, that was a stroke of luck. It seemed unlikely that any of us – excluding young Sim since I noticed she was staring at the water with that worrying curiosity I’d come to know – were going to be poisoned by breathing it in. On the other, it might mean the river was going to explode. Stranger things have happened, and they often happened to us." - Soul-Glass

"It was the ferryman who met the bard first, a beardless lad in a ragged cloak, broadbrimmed hat, and carrying nothing save an iron knife and one small pack across his shoulders. He watched with mild interest as the bard picked his way down the grassy knoll and onto the black-wood of the small dock, coming to a halt directly before the little boat. Neither of them moved for a long while. Somewhere in the distance, an eagle screamed. Finally, the bard spoke. “I wish to cross the river,” he said." - The Bard who Returned to Fairyland in Search of a Name

"Edendale University for Young Ladies: April 9th, 1911. Flora Beckett closed the lid of her luggage, cursed as it bounced, then looked about her room to see if there was anything she’d missed. It did not take long. The professors had long ago subscribed to the austere ideals of the ancient teachers and seemed to take the view that, if a student was comfortable, they were probably shirking in their work. The room was barely big enough for her bed, a footlocker, a little wash-bucket, and her old, bulky diving suit." - Flies in Amber

"The Sturm Islands, 1880 The gas lamp flickered disconcertingly. Emmett Askren, captain of The Iris, groaned and rubbed a large, brown hand across his face. The blinking light ignited shards of pain in his retinas, the ebb and pull of the chatter in the tavern threatening to wash him out to the sea of a meltdown. Carefully, Emmett placed his hands on the table and closed his eyes, pulling all his concentration down through his arms in the half-forgotten method from his childhood. While the Sturm Islands were hardly the seat of Suliland decorum, certain traits were unacceptable anywhere." - Tocktick

"The earth opened up on a Tuesday just before noon. By the time the sun had set, there was only one soul left in the village and this time the darkness was merely an absence of stars. Eventually, moonlight filtered through the warped slats of the water cask, silver strings stitching a fence between him and the inevitable truth." - Nostos & the Filigree Lantern

"It had taken almost a century of denial – and nearly two more of experimentation – before Palamon Keeper accepted it was, in fact, impossible for him to die. He couldn’t seem to maintain an injury either. Yes, he bled and bones broke, but the skin and sinew always knitted itself back together again in a matter of days without a single scar to be seen. Trying to drown himself achieved nothing more than informing him that his lung capacity was the same as it had ever been, but now he’d trap himself in a never-ending cycle of gasping pain and unconsciousness until he ran out of river." - The Way Through the Woods

#tw suicide #writing #fantasy #writeblr #writer #wip #books

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geniusboyy · 2 months ago

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Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 12

Speaks a Sober Heart

The lab was still, its usual hum of activity softened by the late hour. Machines clicked and whirred in quiet repetition, their sounds barely breaking the heavy silence. The faintest rhythm of air cycling through the ventilation system created a steady pulse, while the soft, constant hiss of a nearby cooling unit offered a subtle counterpoint. Red light bathed the room in a muted glow, casting elongated shadows across the counters and machinery. Strung on a wire stretching from wall to wall, rows of photographs swayed gently, still drying, their edges curling slightly. The images—indistinct in the low light—hung like ghosts of the day’s ordeal, captured moments suspended in time, waiting to be revealed.

Upstairs, it was a different world entirely. The air was thick with the haze of cigarette smoke, swirling in lazy waves illuminated by the warm, amber glow of a single table lamp. The light flickered occasionally, casting the room in a gentle, golden wash that softened the edges of everything it touched. A record played softly in the background, the scratch of the needle weaving in with the slow, steady rhythm of the music, the kind of sound that felt like it had always been there—something Fidds picked.

The two sat sprawled in their respective corners of the room. Fidds had claimed the couch, one arm flung over the back, the other resting on his chest as he stretched out, his legs kicked lazily over the armrest. He looked comfortable, his tension melted away by the slow burn of scotch and good company. Across from him, Ford was in the leather chair, the material squeaking as he shifted, one foot propped up on the edge of the coffee table and the other planted firmly on the floor, rocking him gently back and forth. His face was flushed, eyes bright, and his laughter came easily, spilling over between sips of the drink in his hand.

The coffee table between them was cluttered—a nearly empty bottle of scotch sitting prominently in the middle, its amber liquid catching the dim light. Cigarette butts crowded the ashtray, smoke still rising from the most recent additions. The remnants of the joint Fidds—of course— had rolled to accompany his drinks. Scattered leaf crumbs, the herb grinder that had not seen a kitchen since the day it was bought and the discarded paper from his first attempt. His hands were a bit unsteady the first time around and he had to roll a new one.

The bottle had started full, untouched at the beginning of the night, but now it stood as a marker of the hours passed, and the easy way one drink had turned to two, then three. Time had blurred at the edges, their conversation winding through topics both serious and absurd, punctuated by the frequent sounds of shared laughter.

Ford took another sip, the scotch warm as he drank. He leaned back, letting the chair hold his weight as he glanced over at Fidds, who was grinning at something half-forgotten. Ford couldn’t remember what exactly had been said, but it didn’t matter—they were drunk, loose, alive in this small pocket of time, far removed from the weight of the day’s events. He puffed at his cigarette, laughing between breaths at the story Fidds was telling, amused by how animated he got after a couple drinks.

Fidds stretched his arms above his head, letting out a low groan as the tension in his body relaxed even further, his hand reaching for the near-empty bottle of scotch. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, glancing over at Ford with a crooked smile. “Man, you shoulda seen your face earlier.” he shook his head and topped his glass off. “You looked like you were ready to shit yourself.”

Ford rolled his eyes, sinking deeper into his chair, though a smirk tugged at his lips. “Oh, like you were some kind of calm, cool sharpshooter back there? You were firing at that thing like it was duck season.” He gestured lazily toward Fidds with his glass, still grinning. Leaning forward, he ashed his cigarette into the tray on the table between them. “And another thing—you’ve been riding my ass for being ‘impulsive,’ but then you just stand there, like a goddamn statue, waiting for it to flatten you. What would I have told your lovely bride, huh? ‘Sorry, Em, but your husband was just jonesing for a round of chicken’?’’

Fidds snorted, shaking his head as he took a long sip from his glass. “Yeah, okay, Jersey boy, ‘round my neck of the woods, we don’t call that impulsivity,” he drawled, his voice slipping into a thick twang, his grin widening. “We call that guts.”

Ford couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling up from deep in his chest. “Guts, yeah. Some ‘a your guts here, some over there.” He droned, swaying his drinking back and forth. “And if you look wayyy up and the trees, you might just see his glasses.” he joked, the residual adrenaline from the day’s chaos mixing with the warmth of the alcohol. He took another sip. “You’ve got some nerve, pal.”

Fidds gave an exaggerated shrug, unbothered, leaning back against the couch, his grin never fading. “I’d say it turned out fine, didn’t it? Besides, if I hadn’t stood my ground, who’s to say what might’ve happened?” He winked, raising his glass in a half-toast. “That’s mountaineer problem-solving for ‘ya.”

Ford snorted, leaning forward to set his glass on the coffee table. “Settle back easy, ranger. You’ve already gotten your flowers.” he shucked. “All I’m saying is it’s better to have some kind of plan beyond ‘shoot it’.”

They shared a laugh, the tension from earlier long gone, replaced by the comfortable rhythm of their banter. The warmth of the room—the dim light, the soft scratch of the record, the haze of smoke curling in the air—wrapped around them, making the outside world feel a little more distant.

Fidds shifted, the banter draining from his face as the conversation turned, his expression softening into something more introspective. “Before ya know it,” he said, his voice quieter now, thoughtful, “it’ll be time to show my little Tate his way around a gun.” He swirled the remaining scotch in his glass, staring at the amber liquid for a moment before looking back up at Ford. “He’s growin’ up so fast. Feels like just yesterday Emma Mae was tellin’ me she was pregnant.”

Ford let out a low chuckle, leaning forward to ash his cigarette again. “Speakin’ of shotgun,” he said, smirking, timing it perfectly as Fidds took a sip.

Fidd choked, sputtering and coughing into his drink, his free hand wiping the scotch from his chin as he shot Ford a glare. “Oh, fuck you!” he wheezed, though his laughter broke through, filling the room.

Ford leaned back, watching him with a grin that slowly faded, the humor slipping away as the weight of Fidds’ words settled in. He shifted slightly in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Tate’s what, four now?” he asked, his voice softer, genuinely curious.

Fidds nodded, a proud smile flickering on his lips. “Yeah, just turned last month. He’s already askin’ all sorts of questions. Wants to know everything—about the stars, the animals, the way things work. Smart little guy.”

Ford nodded, absently tapping his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. “Sounds like he takes after his old man,” he said, but there was a slight distance in his voice now, a shadow of something Ford couldn’t quite name tugging at him, pulling him deeper into his own thoughts.

“Yeah,” Fidds said, a little wistfully. “Time’s flyin’. Hell, he’s already askin’ when he can come up here with me.” he said with a light laugh, then his eyes lit up, as if he’d just remembered something. “Wait here just a sec.”

He set his drink down and, with a slight stumble, pushed himself off the couch. He shot Ford a grin as he headed toward the back room. “I wanna show you somethin’.”

Ford watched as Fidds disappeared down the hall, his heavy footsteps creaking on the old wooden floor. He listened to the sound of drawers opening and closing, punctuated by the occasional mutter as Fidds searched for whatever he was after.

A moment later, Fidds returned, his face beaming as he held an envelope in his hand. He plopped back down on the couch, pulling out a small piece of paper. “Look at this,” he said, his voice soft with affection.

Ford leaned forward, taking the paper from Fidds’ outstretched hand. It was a drawing, clearly done by a child, with bright, uneven lines and mismatched colors. In the center of the page was a small cabin, drawn with thick, wobbly lines. Next to it, two stick figures—one labeled ‘Daddy’ and the other ‘Uncle Ford.’ with a backwards ‘e’. Above them, the sky was filled with a giant, crooked sun, and in the corner, the unmistakable scrawl of a child’s handwriting.

Ford’s throat tightened as he stared at the little figures, their stick arms reaching out toward each other, standing proudly in front of the cabin. He blinked, his chest warming with a quiet, unexpected emotion. “Uncle Ford, huh?” he said, his voice softer than he’d intended.

Fidds smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Yeah. You know he talks about you all the time. Whenever I call, he always asks if you’re there. What you’re doin’.”

Ford ran his thumb over the corner of the drawing, feeling the crinkled texture of the paper. He couldn’t help but smile, a soft, almost wistful expression pulling at his features. “Damn… Didn’t realize I was makin’ such an impression.”

Fidds chuckled, leaning back against the couch, looking at Ford with a kind of easy affection. “Well. Guess you’re stuck with the title now.”

Ford set the drawing down in the table and picked up his glass again, staring at the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way the light caught on the surface, shifting slightly as he swirled it around. He barely heard Fiddleford’s question at first. It was a simple one—innocuous, even—but the weight of it settled over him like a heavy blanket, suffocating and thick.

“You ever think about… settling down?” Fiddleford’s voice had that lazy, easygoing drawl, the one that usually slipped out after a few drinks, when the edges of his words softened and slowed. It was a casual enough question, but there was something about the way he said it, something that made Ford tense, the muscles in his back tightening like someone had pulled a wire too taut. “Startin’ a family, all that stuff?”

Ford’s fingers tightened around the glass as the silence between them stretched. The warmth of the scotch did little to ease the tension that had suddenly wedged itself into the room, turning the comfortable haze from before into something heavier, more difficult to navigate. He stared down into the remaining liquid, watching the way the amber rippled, distorted by the dim light of the room, and tried to focus on anything other than the knot in his chest.

It wasn’t even that the question had caught him off guard. It was the fact that it had—that he had no immediate answer, no gut reaction. A question like that shouldn’t have taken him by surprise, shouldn’t have sent his thoughts careening toward Bill in a way that felt… wrong. Not wrong in the moral sense, but wrong because it didn’t fit. The idea of family—settling down, having children, creating something domestic and stable—had no place in the space Bill occupied in his mind. But the moment Fiddleford had asked, it was Bill who came to him, unsolicited, in the quiet spaces of his thoughts.

Bill hadn’t been there, though. Not really. Not since that dream when everything between them had felt closer, more charged. He should be here now, Ford thought, not for the first time that day, but the absence was undeniable, an unsettling void where there should’ve been something familiar. Where is he?

The scotch burned down his throat as he took another sip, and Ford could feel Fiddleford’s eyes on him, watching him, waiting for a response that wasn’t coming. He shifted in his seat, trying to push the thoughts away. But the memory of Bill’s presence—or lack thereof—gnawed at him, nagging like a dull ache at the back of his skull. He couldn’t feel him like he usually could, that faint hum of awareness always in the background. He could sense, somehow, that Bill was still there, somewhere, but it felt distant. Quiet. And it hadn’t been quiet in so long.

Ford blinked, realizing he’d left Fiddleford hanging for too long, but the thoughts were jumbled, his words slow to come. He cleared his throat, his voice rasping out like it had gotten lost somewhere in the mess of his head. “I, uh… never really thought about it.”

Fiddleford’s expression was unreadable at first, though Ford noticed the slight shift in his posture, the way his shoulders eased as though something in him had clicked into place. Ford knew that look—he knew what it meant. Shit. Fiddleford was pulling back, making his own assumptions. Of course, he was thinking that.

Ford winced, feeling the weight of his friend’s gaze, and for a moment, it wasn’t just about Bill, or about the conversation, or even about the distance between him and everything that “family” represented. It was about the way Fiddleford had always looked at him with this quiet patience, that understanding Ford never asked for, but was always there, waiting. Now, that look was loaded with something else, a hesitation Ford didn’t know how to tackle.

Fiddleford’s smile was small, a little awkward. “Didn’t mean to make it weird.” He chuckled lightly, but Ford could tell it wasn’t his usual easy laugh. “Just, you know… been thinking ‘bout my own boy lately. Gets a man wonderin’ about things.”

Ford managed a thin smile, though it felt more like a reflex than anything genuine. “Yeah, I get it,” he said, but the words came out hollow, barely convincing. He didn’t get it. He didn’t know what it was like to think about a family in the way Fiddleford did. All he could think about was Bill. And that fact alone was enough to make him wonder what the hell was going on inside his own head.

Fiddleford scratched at his mustache, glancing at Ford from under his brows. Ford could see the gears turning in his mind, the hesitation hanging between them now like the smoke that drifted lazily through the room. It was as though Fiddleford was putting something together, piecing it all out, and then—

“You know, you don’t gotta explain nothin’,” Fiddleford said quietly, his voice softer now. “If it’s… if it’s somethin’ else, I mean. You don’t have to want a family.” He wasn’t looking at Ford now, his eyes trained on his drink, his fingers tapping absentmindedly at the rim of the glass.

Ford’s throat tightened. He could feel the weight of the unspoken words, the suspicion Fiddleford had harbored for weeks, maybe longer. If it’s something else. Ford could almost laugh at how absurdly accurate that was—It certainly was something else. But this, right now, wasn’t about that. Fiddleford thought this was something simpler. He could see the gentle question in his friend’s expression, the tentative offer to talk about something Ford hadn’t even realized was hanging in the air.

But how could Ford explain any of it? How could he untangle what was happening with Bill, how it had started—how it had crept up on him, threading itself through every part of his life until it was too late to separate it from himself? It wasn’t even just about the strangeness of it all, the ways Bill shifted and changed, something cosmic and inhuman made to look like a person. No, it was how consuming it had become, something that didn’t fit into the neat boxes that real people used to define their lives. Normal relationships, normal feelings—those things didn’t apply here. They never had.

And yet, how far off was Fiddleford, really? Bill had a male presentation most of the time, or something close to it—give or take the sharp, unnatural angles and shifting, dream-like features. It wasn’t like Bill had a body in any conventional sense, but the shape he took, the way he appeared in Ford’s mind—it wasn’t a coincidence. It was Ford’s mind that shaped him, wasn’t it? Bill had said as much himself, that his form, his figures, were deeply influenced by Ford’s subconscious desires, his preferences. So what did that say about him? Ford had never thought much about those preferences before—had never really had to—but now, with Bill, there was something different.

But people… people were a different story. Ford could remember vague crushes, fleeting interests over the years, but none of them had ever felt like this. None of them had ever taken over his mind the way Bill did. There had been a few men, sure. A few women, too. But no one had ever gotten under his skin like this, no one had ever made him feel so—what was the word? Connected? Controlled? Ford couldn’t even tell the difference anymore. It was all tangled up together, this mix of desire and obsession, this need to be seen, and Bill saw him in a way no one else had. Did that count?

“I appreciate it, Fidds,” Ford said, his voice tight, trying to keep it steady. “But there’s nothing—” He stopped himself, feeling the lie even before it hit the air. He swallowed, took a breath, then tried again. “It’s not what you think.”

Fiddleford gave a slow nod, his eyes searching Ford’s face, but there was no push, no further question. Just that same patient understanding, the kind Ford had never known how to handle.

“I figured as much.” Fiddleford’s voice was soft, the words carrying a quiet acceptance, and Ford could feel the knot in his chest loosen just a fraction. But the moment still felt fragile, like one wrong word could crack it all open.

And then Fiddleford leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling, and let out a long sigh. “Still. One of these days, someone’s gonna want to settle you down, Stanford.” He smirked, though it was more tired than teasing. “Just hope you’re ready for it when it happens.”

Ford huffed a laugh, though the sound came out strained. Settle down. The idea was so distant from his reality that it was almost laughable, but something about it made his stomach churn, made him think of the way Bill’s absence had felt all day, like a shadow that had shifted just enough to leave him disoriented.

As Fiddleford took another sip of his drink, Ford glanced toward the window, his thoughts drifting. Where are you, Bill?

Fiddleford clears his throat, breaking the silence that’s stretched too long between them. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck as if he could loosen the awkwardness that’s settled there. Ford still hasn’t answered, not really. Still hasn’t offered anything concrete. Just vague responses, like he’s dodging, and maybe he is. Fidd’s not sure why he even brought it up—he’s drunk, sure, but not that drunk. He knows better than to stick his nose in like that, especially with Ford. But something about the day, the adrenaline, the exhaustion, the scotch… it had all blurred the edges of his usual restraint.

“Right, well,” Fidds says, standing up with a groan. “I think it’s about time I hit the hay. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow, and I’ve had too much to drink already. Only Wednesday.” He laughs, but it sounds a little thin, even to him.

Ford watches him go, feeling the weight of the silence that’s left behind. The room suddenly feels too big, too still, with just the faint hum of the record spinning its last few grooves. Fidds saunters off, muttering something about needing to quit the habit of late-night drinks, and Ford nods absently, barely registering his words.

Once Fiddleford’s door clicks shut, the house seems to breathe in, the quiet settling in full force. Ford stares at the empty space where Fidd had been, his mind heavy, thoughts thick. It’s like he’s been trying to outrun them all day, like the physical exhaustion from the hunt and the fear and the shock could somehow keep them at bay. But now, alone, it’s all catching up to him.

He grabs the bottle, still warm from their hands, dragging it off the table as he stumbles toward his room. The house feels cold, shadows too sharp, and his own footsteps sound too loud as he walks down the hall, and they were, his steps heavy with drunkenness. His fingers are clumsy as he fumbles with the door, pushing it open just enough to slip inside, collapsing onto the edge of the bed.

He drinks straight from the bottle now, not bothering with the glass, not bothering with anything except the burn of the liquor as it slides down his throat. He lets his head fall back, eyes half-closed as he tries to sift through the chaos in his mind. But the more he tries to sort it out, the worse it gets, the more tangled it becomes.

Bill.

It’s a reflex now, his mind reaching out for him, searching the space where Bill always is. But there’s nothing. Barely a hum, a distant flicker. He should be here. He’s always here. Ford’s grip tightens around the neck of the bottle, his knuckles taut as he brings it to his lips again. “Bill…” His voice is rough, hoarse from the drink and the long day. “Please, say something.”

But there’s no answer. Just the empty quiet of the room, the faint creak of the old house settling. Ford presses his fingers to his temple. His breath comes in ragged, shuddering bursts as he tries to swallow down the confusion, the frustration, the emotional welling up in his throat. Why can’t he feel him? Why now, of all times, does Bill choose to go quiet?

Ford lets out a long, shaky breath, the weight of it trembling in his chest, his ribcage feeling too tight, like he can’t quite fill his lungs all the way. He stares blankly at the ceiling, eyes tracing the familiar cracks and shadows, but nothing sticks. His mind is a storm, a wild, churning mass of thoughts that collide and scatter before he can pin a single one down. They slip through his fingers like sand, frustrating him with their elusiveness, leaving behind a mess of emotions he can’t name. Anger? Regret? Loneliness? His fingers curl into the sheets beneath him, the fabric bunched tight in his fist. He takes another long drink, the liquor hot and sharp as it burns its way down, cutting through the numbness that’s been creeping in. But it doesn’t bring him any clarity, only another layer of confusion, only another layer of weight pressing down on him.

He waits. He keeps waiting, straining to feel something, anything—a flicker, a word, a sign that Bill is still there. But the silence stretches out in front of him, unbroken, endless. It’s like staring into a void. His heart thuds in his chest, heavy and uncertain, the quiet louder than any noise he’s ever heard.

Ford sat at the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the wall in front of him, the bottle resting between his hands. The scotch had started to go down easier, numbing the edges of his thoughts, but it couldn’t drown them out completely. His mind kept spinning along with his vision, kept circling around the same thing—Bill—and the strange, painful silence that had been pressing down on him all day.

He took another swig, slow, deliberate gulps that singed his throat, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. The emptiness clawed at him, gnawing at his insides. And through it all, that insidious, creeping feeling of rejection slithered into his mind, stinging like an open wound. Ford hated it. Hated the idea of being abandoned. Used. Forgotten.

He shook his head, voice low and rough as he muttered into the quiet. “I’m sorry.” The words felt thin, insincere, and they caught in his throat as soon as they left his mouth. Why are you apologizing? He grimaced, rubbing a hand over his face. “What the hell am I even apologizing for?” The frustration in his voice rose with each word, the anger beginning to bubble up, just beneath the surface. “You can hear me. I know you can.”

But there was no response. Just that faint hum, the barest whisper of Bill in the back of his mind—present, but distant, like a signal he couldn’t tune into. The rejection burned hotter now, the sting sharper. Why won’t you answer me?

Ford’s grip on the bottle tightened, the liquor sloshing around as he swirled it in his hands. His thoughts spiraled, one frustration feeding into another. Bill had protected him before, saved him, it was awful, but they did it together. And now, when Ford had faced danger again, Bill had done nothing. What, do you not care anymore?

The thought twisted in his gut, a knot of frustration and bitterness that he hated. He hated how raw it made him feel, how exposed. Vulnerable. Weak. The anger flared, crawling up his spine, and he took another drink, letting the burn of the alcohol fuel it, sharpening the edges of it. He wanted to feel something other than this gnawing sense of repudiation. His voice rose, louder, more insistent, slurred words spilling out before he could stop them. “You didn’t even fucking try. Just let me fight it off on my own. What, am I not worth the effort now? Did I make things too complicated for your… infinite bullshit?” He spat the last word like venom.

He scoffed, bitterness thick in his throat, choking him. “That it? You’re what—too powerful, too important, too far above it all to give a damn now?” Another swig. The taste of the scotch made him groan, and he smirked bitterly, glaring up at nothing, as if Bill was hovering just out of sight. “Or did ya like it a little too much? Watching me scramble. Watching me need you? That do something for you, huh? You sick fuck.” he wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

His chuckle came out broken, twisted with anger. “You can fuck me every night—get me right where you want me—but a little kiss? That’s too much for you? That’s where you draw the line?” His voice cracked on the last word, a mix of disbelief and fury, his fingers shaking around the bottle as he brought it to his lips again. The emptiness of it all—the silence—was unbearable.

He stood up suddenly, swaying slightly as the room tilted around him. The bottle was nearly empty now, but he wasn’t done. He wasn’t done talking, wasn’t done demanding answers. “You… you get what you want, right? And now you’re just… done with me? Is that it?” His voice cracked, the anger and hurt blurring together into something raw and ugly. “What, am I just not good enough anymore? Is that it, Bill?” his lip quivered slightly at the next thought that slipped into his mind. “Is there someone… else..?”

Nothing. The silence stretched out, suffocating, filling the room until it felt like it was pressing in on him from all sides. Ford’s chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged bursts, his fingers clenching around the neck of the bottle. He could feel the fear of abandonment sinking deeper now, festering in his mind. And with it, the resentment grew, sharper and more vicious with every passing second.

“You’re a fucking coward,” he snarled, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “All this power, all this bullshit, and you’re scared of a fucking kiss?” He growled, his anger peaking as he stepped forward, his pulse roaring in his ears. “You’re scared of what, Bill? Feeling something? Is that what this is?”

Still no answer. Still that infuriating, unbearable silence. Ford’s teeth clenched, his knuckles going white as he gripped the bottle, fury surging through him. He tilted the bottle back, the remnants of what remained inside sliding into his mouth, leaving it empty. He stumbled a bit when he pulled it back from his lips, looking at it, empty. His heart was pounding, his mind spinning, and he needed—needed—something to break, something to shatter under the weight of all this anger. All this rejection.

“Fuck you, Bill,” he spat, voice thick with venom as he hurled the bottle across the room. It smashed against the wall with a sharp, violent crack, shards of glass exploding outward, scattering across the floor. The sound echoed in the small room, punctuating his words, a final act of defiance.

But even that wasn’t enough. Ford stood there, chest heaving, staring at the mess, waiting—waiting—for anything. For Bill to react. For him to appear, to fight back, to argue, to do something.

But the silence persisted.

Ford slumped back onto the bed, the adrenaline bleeding out of him, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. He scrubbed his hands over his face, his anger fading into something else, something weaker. Why did I say that? The regret settled in now, swirling through his already muddled thoughts. “I didn’t mean it,” he muttered, the words barely audible. “I didn’t mean it.”

Still nothing. The silence gnawed at him, digging deep into his skin.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words falling flat. “I’m sorry.”

He lay back on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling as it spun, the alcohol began to pull him under, his body heavy and sluggish, but his mind still racing. You can’t ignore me forever, he thought, the bitterness creeping back in. I’ll see you in my dream. You’ll have to face me.

But even as he thought it, even as he closed his eyes and waited for sleep to take him, there was a part of him that knew something was wrong. That this night wasn’t like the others. His eyes fluttered closed, his heart twinging with anticipation and uncertainty.

But before he knew it, he woke up. He blinked, disoriented, his head pounding, the world pressing in with a dull ache. His mouth was dry, tongue thick and heavy against his teeth. For a moment, he lay still, trying to remember how he’d gotten here. The room was dim, sunlight barely creeping through the curtains, but the haze of the previous night clung to him, sharp and bitter. Slowly, the memories trickled back—what he’d said, the way his anger had flared, the accusations he’d hurled into the empty air.

Shame curled in his chest, a low, twisting knot that tightened with each second of clarity. He groaned, covering his face with his hands, the weight of his own words pressing down on him. Fuck you, Bill. He winced, his voice from last night echoing in his skull. The things he’d said—what had gotten into him?

But the strangest part—the part that made his stomach turn with a new, sobering unease—was the emptiness. For the first time in what felt like forever, there had been no dreams. No confrontation. No Bill. The familiar presence that usually lingered in the background of his mind, always just out of reach, had been completely absent. There hadn’t even been the subtle hum of awareness, the quiet pull that told him Bill was somewhere, listening. Nothing.

The silence was deafening.

It’s Thursday.

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#covenants and other provisions #my writing #stanford pines #bill cipher #billford #billford fanfic #gravity falls #ford pines #fiddleford mcgucket #WOOF emotions are running HIGH #poor ford #i say as if i didn’t write it #heh heh heh #i love angst #someone give this little f word a hug

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